









COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 














“A HUGE BLACK CAME OUT FROM THE BURNING WALL, BEARING IN HIS 

ARMS A YOUNG WOMAN.” 


Bug-Jargal, 

THE 

LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN, 

AND 

CLAUDE GUEUX 


BY 

VICTOR HUGO 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 

BY 

ARABELLA WARD 


, AUG 4 

i’C hh \ 

NEW YORK : 46 East Fourteenth Street 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY 

BOSTON : 100 Purchase Street 




G 


. X 


67 - 00Si< 2 


Copyright, 1896, 

By Thomas Y. Crowell & Company. 


I 5 

< c < 


C. J. Peters & Son, Typographers, 
Boston. 


PREFACE TO EDITION OF 1832. 


In 1818, the author of this volume was sixteen years old ; 
he had made a wager that he could write a book in fifteen 
days. The result was Bug-Jargal. At sixteen, one bets on 
everything and improvises on everything. The story was 
written two years before Hans of Iceland , and although seven 
years later, in 1825, the author revised and rewrote a great 
part of it, yet as a whole it is the same, and may be called 
the author’s first work. He apologizes for its many unimpor- 
tant details ; but he thought that the small number of those 
who like to classify the works of a poet, however obscure he 
may be, in the order of their composition and publication, 
would not be averse to his giving the date of Bug-Jargal. 

As for the author himself, like a traveller who looks back on 
his journey to try and find in the hazy lines of the horizon 
the spot from whence he set out, he wanted to make this story 
a souvenir of that age of calmness, audacity, and confidence, 
when he boldly attacked so immense a subject as the revolt 
of the blacks of San Domingo in 1791, a giant struggle in 
which three continents took part, Europe and Africa as the 
contestants, and America as the battlefield 

March 24, 1832. 


iii 















































































































































































































































































































































































































PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 


January, 1826. 


The following story, founded on the revolt of the slaves 
of San Domingo in 1791, was in itself a sufficient reason for 
hindering the author from publishing it. But a limited num- 
ber of copies had already been printed and circulated in 1820, 
at a time when the politics of the day were only partially 
interested in Hayti, and it is evident that it is not the author’s 
fault if the subject, since then, has become of greater inter- 
est. The events arranged themselves for the book, not the 
book for the events. However this may be, the author had 
no idea of raising the volume from the obscurity into which 
it had fallen ; but he was informed that a Parisian publisher 
was thinking of reprinting his anonymous sketch, and in 
order to prevent this, he revised it and brought it out him- 
self. This precaution saved the author’s amour propre , and 
the aforesaid publisher a poor investment. 

Several distinguished persons, both colonists and officers, 
who were implicated in the troubles of San Domingo, hav- 
ing heard of the forthcoming publication, voluntarily gave 
the author much useful material, which was all the more val- 
uable as most of it had never been published. The author 
here wishes to express to them his sincere thanks. The doc- 
uments have been most serviceable to him in rectifying some 
mistakes in the local coloring of Captain d’Auverney’s story, 
as well as in its historical accuracy. 

It must also be stated that the story of Bug-Jargal is only a 
fragment of a more extensive work, which the author had 

v 


VI 


PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 


planned to write, to be known as Camp Stories. The author 
imagines that during the war of the Revolution, several 
French officers meet together to while away the long nights 
of bivouac by telling their adventures. The present volume 
is a part of this series, but can be read as a separate story. 
The series was never completed, and never will be, nor is it 
of importance that it should be. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Bug-Jargal 1 

Last Day of a Condemned Man 191 


Claude Gueux 


327 



























































































































































































































' 














BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER I. 

When it came Captain Leopold d’Auverney’s turn to speak, 
he opened his eyes wide, declaring that really there was not 
a single episode in his life worth relating. 

u But, Captain,’’ said Lieutenant Henri, “ they say you have 
travelled around the world. Have you not been to the An- 
tilles, Africa, Italy and Spain? Ah, Captain, your lame 
dog ! ” 

D’Auverney started, dropped his cigar, and turned hastily 
to the door of the tent, as an enormous dog came limping 
toward him. 

The dog, as he rushed in, crushed the captain’s cigar be- 
neath his paw, but the captain did not notice it. 

The animal licked his master’s feet, wagged his tail, yelped, 
jumped about as well as he could, and finally crouched down 
in front of him. The captain seemed moved, troubled, and 
patted him mechanically with his left hand, loosening with 
the other the chin-piece of his helmet, while from time to 
time he repeated the words, “ You, Kask ! you ! There, — 
but who brought you back ? ” 

“ By your leave, Captain ” — 

A moment before, Sergeant Thadee had raised the flap of 
the tent, and now stood with his right arm hidden under his 
cloak, his eyes filled with tears, as he silently watched the 
climax of the Odyssey. At length he ventured the words, 
“ By your leave, Captain” — D’Auverney raised his eyes. 

“ Ah, here you are, Thad ; but how the devil did you man- 

1 


9 


BUG-JARGAL. 


age it ? Poor dog ! I thought he was in the English camp. 
Where did you find him ? ” 

“ Thank Heaven ! Captain, I am as delighted as your 
nephew used to be when you made him decline cornu , the 
horn ; cornus, of the horn.” 

“ Tell me, where did you find the dog ? ” 

“ I did not find him, Captain ; I have been looking for him.” 

The captain rose and held out his hand to the sergeant ; but 
the latter still kept his own hidden in his cloak. The captain 
did not notice the fact. 

“You see, Captain, ever since poor Bask was lost, I have 
noticed, sir, by your leave, that you missed something. To 
tell you the whole story, I thought, when evening came, and 
he failed to return to share my supper as usual, that it would 
take very little to make old Thad cry like a child. But no, 
thank God, I have cried only twice in my life : the first was 
when — when” — 

The sergeant looked at his chief anxiously. 

“ The second was when the idea entered the head of that 
fellow Balthazar, corporal in the seventh demi-brigade, to 
make me clean a bunch of onions.” 

“ It strikes me, Thadee,” cried Henri laughing, “ that you 
have not yet told us on what occasion you cried the first 
time.” * 

“ Probably, old fellow, it was when you received the em- 
brace of La Tour d’ Auvergne, first grenadier of France ; was it 
not ? ” asked the captain kindly, continuing to stroke the dog. 

“No, Captain; if Sergeant Thadee ever cried, you know 
that it could only have been, and you will bear me witness, 
on the day when he gave the word, ‘ fire upon Bug-Jargal, 
otherwise called Pierrot.” 

A shadow crossed d’Auverney’s face, and hastily approach- 
ing the sergeant, he tried to seize him by the hand ; but in 
spite of this unusual honor, old Thadee held his cloak closely 
about him. 

“ Yes, Captain,” he continued, retreating a few steps while 


BUG-JARGAL. 


8 


d’Auverney kept his troubled eyes upon him, “ yes, I did cry 
then ; and he deserved it ! He was black, it is true, but gun- 
powder is black too, and — and ” — 

The worthy sergeant would have liked to carry out his 
strange comparison properly. Perhaps there was something 
pleasing to him in the idea ; but it was in vain that he tried 
to express it ; so, after having several times attacked it, so to 
speak, on every side, like a general who tries to attack a gar- 
risoned fort, and fails, he hastily raised the siege, and went 
on without regard to the smiles of his listeners. 

“ You remember, Captain, do you not, the poor negro, rush- 
ing up out of breath just as his ten comrades stood there ? 
They had already been bound. I was in command. And 
then he untied them himself, and took their place, although 
they did not want him to do so. But he was inflexible. Oh, 
what a man ! He was a veritable Gibraltar. And then, Cap- 
tain, as he stood there as straight as though he were about to 
dance, and his dog, this same Bask, who understood what was 
going on, and who sprang at my throat ” — 

“ Usually, Thad,” interrupted the captain, “ when you reach 
this point in the story, you give a little caress to Bask ; see 
how he is watching you.” 

“ You are right,” said Thadee, somewhat embarrassed, “ he 
is watching me, poor Bask ; but — old Malagrida used to say 
that a caress with the left hand brought ill-luck.” 

“Well, why not use your right hand,” asked d’Auverney 
surprised, for the first time noticing Thadee’s hand hidden 
under the cloak, and the pallor of his face. 

The sergeant’s embarrassment seemed to increase. 

“ By your leave, Captain, it is because — You have a 
lame dog already, and I am afraid you are about to have 
a one-armed sergeant.” 

The captain sprang from his seat. 

“ What ? What do you mean ? W T hat are you saying, dear 
old Thadee, one-armed ? Show me your arm. One-armed, 
great God ! ” 


4 


BUG-JARGAL. 


D’Auverney trembled from head to foot ; the sergeant 
slowly opened his cloak, and showed his arm, wrapped in 
a bloody handkerchief. 

“ Ah, my God ! ” murmured the captain, carefully raising 
the linen. “ Tell me about it, old fellow.’’ 

11 Oh, it is a very simple story. I told you that I had 
noticed your grief ever since those cursed English stole your 
beautiful dog, poor Rask, the mastiff of Bug — That was 
enough. I resolved to bring him back (were it to cost me 
my life), in order to have a good appetite for supper this eve- 
ning. So I gave orders to Mathelet to brush your uniform 
thoroughly, to-morrow being the day for the battle, and slipped 
quietly out of camp, armed with my sword. In order to 
reach the English camp more quickly, I crossed through the 
hedges, and had scarcely reached the first intrenchments, 
when, by your leave, Captain, in a clump of trees on the left, 
I caught sight of a group of redcoats. All unobserved I ad- 
vanced to see what was going on, and there in their midst was 
Bask, tied to a tree, while two of my fine gentlemen, naked to 
the waist, like heathens, were fighting each other, making as 
much noise as the drum of a regiment. These two English- 
men, if you please, Captain, were fighting for your dog. But 
all at once Bask caught sight of me, and gave such a bound 
that the cord broke, and in the twinkling of an eye he was at 
my heels. The others were not long in following. I hid in 
the woods. Bask followed. Several bullets whizzed by my 
ears. Bask barked, but luckily they could not hear him 
above their shouts of ( French dog ! French dog ! ’ as though 
your dog was not a fine San Domingo. Well, I crossed through 
the thicket, and was just leaving it when two redcoats ap- 
peared before me. I disposed of one with my sword, and 
should have made way with the other had not his pistol been 
loaded. You see my right arm — Well, no matter ! The 
‘ French dog ’ sprang at his throat, as though he were an old 
acquaintance, and the Englishman fell over, strangled to death. 
I promise you the embrace was a rough one. Why did the fel- 


BUG-JARGAL. 


5 


low pursue me, like a beggar after a student ? But, Thad 
is back in camp again, and Bask too. My only regret is that 
the good Lord was not willing for me to receive this wound in 
to-morrow’s battle, that’s all.” 

The old sergeant’s features became sad at the thought of 
not having received the wound in battle. 

“ Thadee ! ” cried the captain, in a vexed tone. Then more 
gently ; “ Why were you foolish enough to run such a risk for 
a dog ? ” 

“ It was not for a dog, Captain, it was for Bask.” 

D’Auverney’s face relaxed completely. The sergeant con- 
tinued : — 

“ For Bask, the mastiff of Bug ” — 

“ Enough ! enough ! old Thad,” cried the captain, putting 
his hand to his eyes. “Come,” said he, after a moment’s 
silence, “ lean on me, and we will go to the hospital.” 

Thadee obeyed, after a respectful resistance. The dog, 
who had been chewing his master’s fine bear-skin rug, rose 
and followed them. 


6 


BUG-JAEGAL. 


CHAPTER II. 

This episode had greatly roused the curiosity of the care- 
less story-tellers. 

Captain Leopold d’Auverney was one of those men who, 
no matter where they are placed by the chances of nature or 
circumstance, always inspire a certain degree of respect and 
interest. At first sight, there was nothing especially prepos- 
sessing in him ; his manner was cold, his glance indifferent. 
Although tropical suns had bronzed his features, they had not 
roused in him that vivacity of gesture and expression which 
the Creoles unite with a graceful carelessness. D’Auvern^y 
spoke little, rarely listened, and always appeared restless. 
The first to mount, the last in camp, it seemed as though he 
were trying to forget himself in bodily exercise. His thoughts 
had left their sad traces in the deep lines of his brow, and were 
not such as are forgotten in the telling, nor such as would inter- 
est one in a light conversation. Leopold d’Auverney, whom the 
fatigues of battle could not overcome, seemed to be borne down 
by a mental struggle, so to speak. He avoided discussion as 
much as he sought fighting. If now and then he let himself be 
drawn into an argument, he uttered three or four words full 
of sound sense and judgment, then, just as his adversary was 
about to be convinced, he stopped short, saying, “ Of what use 
is it all?” and left the camp to ask the commander what 
could be done, while waiting for the charge or the attack. 

His comrades excused his cold and reserved manner, be- 
cause on every occasion they had found him brave, good and 
kind. He had saved many a life, at the risk of his own, 
and they well knew that, although he seldom opened his lips, 
his purse, at least, was never closed. The army loved him and 
forgave him his faults, even to the point of worshipping him. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


7 


Yet he was still very young. He looked perhaps thirty, 
but he was not even that. Although he had been fighting for 
quite a while in the Republican ranks, they were still igno- 
rant of his past life. The only being who, besides Rask, could 
elicit any show of affection from him was the old sergeant, 
Thadee, who had entered the army with him, and who now 
and then told, in a vague way, some stories of his life. It was 
known that d’Auverney had suffered great misfortunes in 
America ; that he had married at San Domingo, and lost his 
wife and his entire family in the massacres which the Revo- 
lution brought upon that magnificent colony. At the time of 
this story, such misfortunes were so common, that there ex- 
isted a sort of fund of general sympathy, in which every one 
had a share. So they pitied Captain d’Auverney, not so much 
for the loss he had suffered, as for the way in which he bore 
it. Now and again there were visible, behind his cold indif- 
ference, signs of a deep, unhealed wound. 

However, as soon as a battle began, his brow became 
serene. He was as dauntless in an assault as though he were 
ambitious for a generalship, but after the victory he appeared 
as modest as though he wanted to be only a simple soldier. 
His comrades, when they saw his contempt for honors and 
promotion, could not see why he should appear so eager before 
a battle, nor did they surmise that d’Auverney sought only 
death from all the chances of war. 

The representatives of the people gave him the title of 
brigade-commander, one day on the battlefield; but he de- 
clined it, because he would be obliged, in leaving his com- 
pany, to part from Sergeant Thadee. A few days later, he 
offered to undertake a hazardous expedition. He returned 
from it safe, contrary to the general expectation and his own 
wishes. He was heard to say that he wished he had not 
refused the promotion offered him ; “ For,” he added, “ al- 
though I always escape the enemy’s guns, perhaps the guil- 
lotine, which ends those who rise, might claim me.” 


8 


BUG-JAEGAL. 


CHAPTER III. 

This was the man about whom the following conversation 
took place, when he had left the tent. 

“ I’ll wager,” cried Lieutenant Henri, wiping off the mud 
which the dog had left on his red boot, “ I’ll wager that 
the captain would not exchange the broken paw of his dog 
for those ten hampers of Madeira which we saw the other 
day in the general’s wagon.” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” gayly cried Paschal, the aide-de-camp. 
“ That would be a bad bargain. The hampers are at present 
empty, I have heard about them ; and,” he added, in a se- 
rious tone, “ thirty uncorked bottles are not worth as much, 
you must admit, Lieutenant, as that poor dog’s paw, which, 
after all, could be used for a bell-pull.” 

The company burst into laughter at the serious tone in 
which the aide-de-camp uttered these last words. Alfred, 
alone, the young officer of the Basque Hussars, did not even 
smile, but looked on discontentedly. 

“ I do not see, gentlemen, what cause there is for laugh- 
ter in what has just happened. The dog and the sergeant, 
both of whom have been with d’Auverney as long as I have 
known him, seem to me to be most interesting. Besides, the 
episode ” — 

Paschal, piqued at Alfred’s ill-humor and at the others’ 
jokes, interrupted him with — 

“ Yes, it was very affecting, a restored dog, and a broken 
arm ! ” 

“ Captain Paschal, you are wrong,” said Henri, flinging the 
bottle he had just emptied out of the tent, “this Bug, or 
Pierrot, rouses my curiosity.” 

Paschal, ready to retort angrily, became calm, and re- 


BUG-JARGAL. 


9 


marked that the glass which he had thought empty was full. 
D’Auverney entered at that moment, and sat down without 
a word. His manner was troubled, but his features were 
calmer. He seemed so preoccupied, that he heard nothing of 
the conversation aboi\t him. Eask had followed him, and 
crouched down at his feet with a restless air. 

“ Your glass, Captain d’ Auverney. Taste a bit of this.” 

“Oh! Thank God,” said the captain, “the wound is not 
dangerous, the arm is not broken.” 

Only the involuntary respect which they all felt for the 
captain, restrained the laugh on Henri’s lips. 

“ Well, since you are no longer anxious about Thadee,” 
said he, “ and as we are here for the purpose of relating 
stories to shorten this night of bivouac, I hope, my dear friend, 
that you will keep your promise, and tell us the story of your 
lame dog and Bug — somebody, or Pierrot, that veritable 
Gibraltar ! ” 

To this question, asked in a tone half-serious, half-joking, 
d’Auverney would have had nothing to reply, had not the 
others added their entreaties to those of the lieutenant. 

At length he yielded. 

“ I will tell it to you, gentlemen ; but you must expect only 
a very ordinary story, in which I play only a secondary role. 
If you expect something extraordinary on account of the 
attachment between Thadee, Eask and myself, I warn you 
that you deceive yourselves. I will begin.” 

Immediately silence fell upon the group. Paschal emptied 
his brandy-flask, and Henri wrapped himself in the half- 
demolished bear-skin, to protect himself from the night air, 
and Alfred stopped humming the Galician tune of Matajoerros. 

H’Auverney was silent a moment, as though to recall events 
of long ago ; at last he began to speak very slowly, in a low 
tone, and with frequent pauses. 


10 


BUG-JABGAL. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Although born in France, when still very young I was 
sent to San Domingo, to an uncle, a rich colonist, whose 
daughter I was to marry. 

“ My uncle’s estates lay next to Fort Galifet, and his plan- 
tations occupied the greater part of the plains of l’Acul. 

“This unfortunate fact, which no doubt seems trifling to 
you, was one of the chief causes of the misfortunes and the 
total ruin of my family. 

“ Eight hundred negroes were employed on my uncle’s im- 
mense estate. The wretched condition of these slaves was 
aggravated still more by their master’s indifference. My uncle 
belonged to that class of planters, fortunately few in number, 
whose heart had been hardened by his long habit of absolute 
despotism. Accustomed to immediate obedience, the slightest 
hesitation on thp part of a slave was punished in the most 
cruel manner* and often the intercession of his children served 
only to increase his anger. Thus we were often compelled to 
alleviate in secret the pain we could not prevent openly.” 

“ Those are fine phrases ! ” said Henry aside, to his neigh- 
bor. “ I trust that the captain will not leave the misfortunes 
of the former without some little dissertation on the duties 
imposed by humanity, et cetera. One might as well be at 
the Massiac club.” 1 

1 Perhaps our readers have forgotten that the Massiac club, to which 
Lieutenant Henri refers, was an association of Negrophiles. The club was 
organized at Paris, in the beginning of the Revolution, and was the cause 
of most of the insurrections which arose among the colonies. 

One may be surprised at the rather audacious flippancy in which the young 
lieutenant referred to the philanthropists who reigned at this time through 
the mercy of the executioner. But we must remember that, both during the 
Reign of Terror and afterwards, liberty of thought and speech had taken 
refuge in the camp. This noble privilege now and then cost a general his 


BUG-JARGAL. 


11 


“ I will be obliged to you, Henri, if you will spare me your 
jests,” said d’Auverney coldly, who overheard the remark. 

Then he resumed : — 

“ Among all these slaves, one alone found favor with my 
uncle. This was a Spanish dwarf, a colored griff e , 1 who had 
been given him by Lord Effingham, governor of Jamaica. 
My uncle had lived for a long time in Brazil, and had ac- 
quired habits of Portuguese luxury, liking to surround himself 
with a display corresponding to his wealth. His many slaves, 
trained to service like European servants, gave his home a 
princely splendor. That it might lack nothing, he had made 
Lord Effingham’s slave his fool, after the manner of the 
ancient feudal princes, who had court jesters. It must be 
admitted that this choice was a remarkably happy one. The 
griffe, Habibrah (such was his name), was one of those crea- 
tures whose physical appearance was so strange, that if they . 
did not amuse one, they would seem like monsters. The 
hideous dwarf was short and fat, and moved with singular 

head ; but it absolved from all reproach the shining glory of the soldiers 
whom the denunciators of the convention called, “the gentlemen of the 
Army of the Rhine.” 

1 This word demands an explanation. 

Monsieur Moreau de Saint Mery, in developing Franklin’s system, has 
classified under the generic heads the various tints of the mixed colored 
race. 

He says that man consists of one hundred and twenty-eight parts, the 
whites with whites, and the blacks with blacks. 

Following out this idea, he states that one comes nearer to, or farther 
from one color or another, as one comes nearer to, or farther from, the sixty- 
fourth term, which is the mean proportion. 

According to this system every man who is not eight parts white is 
called black. 

Going from this color toward the white, there are nine principal stems, 
which vary according to the greater or less number of parts they retain of 
one color or the other. These nine stems are: the sacatra, griffe, mara- 
bout, mulatto, quateron, metis, mameloue, quateronnt, sang-mele. 

The latter, continuing to mingle with the white, finally is confounded 
with it. It is proved, however, that some indisputable trace of its origin 
can be found on some part of the body. 

The griffe is the result of five combinations, and may have from twenty- 
eight to thirty-two white parts, and ninety-six or one hundred and four of 
black. 


12 


BUG-JARGAL. 


rapidity on his slim, weak legs, which he folded under him 
when he sat down, like the legs of a spider. His huge head, 
sunk deep between his shoulders, bristled with frizzled, red 
wool, and his ears were so large that his comrades used to say 
that Habibrah used them to wipe his eyes with when he cried. 
His face was one constant grin, yet never the same, a strange 
mobility of feature which at least possessed the advantage of 
giving variety to his ugliness. My uncle loved him on ac- 
count of his deformity and his constant gayety. Habibrah was 
his favorite. While the other slaves were worn out with work, 
Habibrah’ s only duty was to carry behind his master a large 
fan of birds-of-paradise plumes, and wave away the flies and 
mosquitos. My uncle had him eat on a rush mat at his feet, 
and always gave him something from his own choice dish. 
Habibrah appeared grateful for such kindness, and used his 
privileges of clown, the right to say and do anything, only to 
divert his master. At the least sign from the latter, he would 
run with the swiftness of an ape and the submission of a dog. 

“I did not like the fellow. He was too servile; and if 
slavery does not dishonor one, being a servant lowers one. 
I felt a kindly pity for the unhappy negroes who worked all 
day with hardly any clothing to hide their chains ; but this 
deformed buffoon, this lazy slave, in his absurd costume covered 
with gold lace and bells, filled me with scorn. Besides, the 
dwarf did not make good use of the advantage which being 
his master’s favorite gave him. He never asked mercy for 
others, of the master who inflicted so much punishment ; and 
one day, when he thought he was alone with my uncle, he was 
even heard to beg him to use greater severity than usual 
toward his unfortunate comrades. But the other slaves, who 
might have looked at him in jealousy and defiance, did not 
seem to hate him. He inspired them with a sort of respectful 
fear, unlike the feeling of hatred ; and whenever he passed by 
their huts, in his great pointed cap covered with bells and its 
strange figures in red ink, they whispered among themselves : 
“ He is an obi ! ” ( Sorcerer .) 


BUG-JARGAL. 


13 


“ These details which I am telling you, gentlemen, at first 
were of small note to me. I was completely absorbed by my 
pure love, which it seemed nothing could ever change, a love 
that had been felt and shared from childhood by the woman 
I was to marry. I thought of little else besides Marie. 
From my earliest years I had been accustomed to look upon 
her, who had been a sister to me, as my future wife ; and there 
had grown up between us a feeling, the nature of which can- 
not be understood, even when I say that it partook of broth- 
erly affection, passionate love, and perfect trust. Few men 
had a happier childhood than mine ; few men have felt their 
hopes in life opening under a clearer sky, or brightened by a 
sweeter joy. Surrounded from birth with every luxury of 
wealth, with every privilege of rank, in a country where color 
alone gave rank, spending my days beside the one who pos- 
sessed all my love, seeing that love smiled upon by our 
parents, who were the only ones who could have forbidden it, 
and all this at an age when the blood is warm, in a land 
where summer is eternal, and where nature is at her best, — 
what more was necessary to make me trust blindly in my 
future star ? What more was needed to give me the right to 
say that few men have spent a happier childhood ? ” 

The captain paused, as though his voice failed him when 
he recalled his past happiness. Then he continued, in a sor- 
rowful tone : — 

“ It is true, that I have the right now to add that no one 
could spend his last days more unhappily.” 

And, as though the thought of his unhappiness gave him 
strength, he resumed in a firm voice : — 


14 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTEB V. 

“ In the midst of these dreams and hopes, my twentieth 
birthday, which would be in the month of August, 1791, drew 
near. My uncle had set this date for my marriage with 
Marie. You can readily see that the thought of such ap- 
proaching happiness easily put everything else out of my 
mind, and how vague would be my remembrance of the politi- 
cal troubles which for two years had been agitating the 
colony. I will not speak of the Count de Peinier, nor of 
Monsieur de Blanchelaude nor of that unhappy Colonel de 
Mauduit whose end was so tragic. I will not describe to you 
the rivalry of the Provincial Assembly of the North, and of 
the Colonial Assembly , which assumed the title of General 
Assembly , thinking that the word colonial sounded servile. 
These troubles, which at that time engrossed every one, inter- 
est us now only on account of the disasters which they pro- 
duced. Between the mutual jealousy of the Cape and that of 
Port-au-Prince, my opinion, had I had one, would necessarily 
have been in favor of the Cape, where we were living, and of 
the Provincial Assembly, of which my uncle was a member. 

“Only once was I called upon to take an active part in a 
debate on the subject of the day. It was at the time of that 
unfortunate decree of the 15th of May, 1791, by which the 
National Assembly of France granted the same political 
rights to the free colored men as to the whites. At an offi- 
cial ball, at the Cape, several young colonists spoke warmly 
of the law, which hurt the pride of the whites. Before I 
entered into the conversation I noticed a rich planter ap- 
proaching the group. The whites were loath to admit him 
into their society, on account of his color, which made them 
suspect his origin. I went up to the man quickly, and said to 


BTJG-JARGAL. 


15 


him, ‘ Do not stop here, sir; if you do, you will hear some 
disagreeable things, because you have mixed blood in your 
veins. 7 The remark irritated the man, and a duel followed. 
We were both wounded. I had been wrong, I confess, in 
provoking him ; but probably the so-called color 'prejudice was 
not the only reason for my act ; the man had had for some 
time sufficient audacity to aspire to my cousin’s hand, and at 
the very moment when I had humiliated him so unexpectedly, 
he was about to dance with her. 

“ However, I was waiting impatiently for the moment 
when I could call Marie my own, and I remained ignorant of 
the growing excitement about me. Thinking only of my 
approaching happiness, I was not conscious of the portentous 
cloud overhanging our political horizon, and which, in burst- 
ing, was to ruin every one. It was not that the minds, even 
the most prompt to take alarm, seriously expected the revolt 
of the slaves ; this class was despised too much to be feared. 
But there was among the whites and the free mulattoes alone, 
enough hatred, for the volcano, repressed for so long, to over- 
throw the entire colony at the dreaded moment when it burst 
forth. 

“ Early in the month of August, the month so earnestly 
longed for, a strange incident ruffled my peaceful hopes. 


16 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ On the banks of a pretty river which watered the planta- 
tion, my uncle had had erected a small rustic summer-house, 
surrounded by a thick hedge. Here Marie was in the habit 
of coming daily, in order to breathe the fresh sea-breezes, 
which, during the hottest months of the year, blew across 
San Domingo from morning till evening, their freshness 
increasing or diminishing with the heat. 

“Every morning I decorated this bower with the most 
beautiful flowers that I could find. 

“ One day Marie came running to me in fright. She had, 
as usual, gone to her bower ; and, to her surprise and terror, 
she found that all the flowers which I had placed there in 
the morning had been torn down and trampled under foot ; a 
bunch of fresh marigolds was on the bench where she was ac- 
customed to sit. Hardly had she recovered from her amaze- 
ment, when she was attracted by the strains of a guitar, which 
came from among the surrounding vines ; then a voice, not 
mine, began to sing a song which seemed to her Spanish, but, 
from fright and timidity perhaps, she caught only her own 
name, frequently repeated. Then she fled in haste, and for- 
tunately she met no obstacle. 

“This story filled me with rage and jealousy. My first 
thought was of the free half-breed, with whom I had recently 
had the dispute, but in my perplexity I resolved to do noth- 
ing rashly. I reassured poor Marie, and said to myself that I 
would keep constant watch over her, until the moment arrived 
when I could protect her still more closely. 

“ Supposing that the villain whose insolence had so startled 
Marie would not stop at this first attempt, in order to prove 
what I guessed to be his love I hid that, very evening beneath 


BUG-JARGAL. 


IT 


the chamber where my fiancee was sleeping. I waited, hidden 
among the sugar-cane, armed with my dagger. N or did I 
wait in vain. Toward midnight, a sad, slow prelude fell upon 
the silence from a few feet away, and attracted my attention. 
The sound was like a blow to me ; it was a guitar beneath 
Marie’s very window ! Furious, brandishing my dagger, 
I rushed toward the spot whence came the sounds, breaking 
under my tread the brittle stalks of sugar-cane. All of a sud- 
den I felt myself seized and hurled down with a strength 
that seemed to me prodigious ; my dagger was wrenched 
violently from me; I saw it gleaming above my head. At 
the same time two glowing eyes shone into mine, and a double 
row of white teeth, which I saw in the darkness, opened, to 
hiss out these words in a tone of fury : ‘ Te tengo ! te tengo ! ’ 
(I have you ! I have you ! ) 

“ More amazed than frightened, I struggled, but in vain, 
against my formidable adversary ; and the point of steel had 
already entered my clothing, when Marie, awakened by the 
guitar and the noise of the scuffle, suddenly appeared at the 
window. She recognized my voice, saw the shining dagger, 
and uttered a cry of anguish. The despairing shriek in some 
way paralyzed the hand of my victorious antagonist; he 
stopped as though spell-bound, stepped back a few rods, the 
dagger still at my breast, then all at once he hurled it aside : 
‘No!’ said he, this time in French, 1 no ! she would cry 
too much ! ’ As he uttered these strange words, he disap- 
peared among the rose-bushes; and by the time I arose, half- 
stunned, from the unequal and singular strife, not a sound, 
not a trace, of him remained. 

“It would be difficult to describe my feelings when I 
regained consciousness, in the arms of my dear Marie, to 
whom I had been so strangely restored by the very one who 
seemed to dispute her possession with me. I was more than 
ever indignant at my sudden rival, and ashamed at owing my 
life to him. 

“ ‘ In reality,’ said my pride, * it is to Marie I owe it, for it 


18 


BUG-JARGAL. 


was the sound of her voice alone that made him drop the 
dagger/ Yet I could not but admit that there was something 
generous in the feeling which had made my unknown rival 
spare me. But who was he ? I was lost among suspicions, 
which conflicted one with another. It could not be the 
planter, the half-breed whom my jealousy had at first ima- 
gined. He was far from having that great strength ; besides, 
it was not his voice. The man with whom I had fought 
seemed to be naked to his waist. Only the slaves in the 
colony were dressed in that way. But it could not be a 
slave ; the feelings which had caused him to fling away the 
dagger could not be those of a slave; besides, everything in 
me rebelled at the idea of having a slave for a rival. Who 
was he, then ? I decided to watch and wait.” 


BUG-JARGAL. 


19 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ Marie had wakened the old nurse, who took the place of 
the mother she had lost in infancy. I passed the remainder 
of the night under their roof, and as soon as it was daylight 
we told my uncle the strange story. He seemed greatly 
surprised ; but his pride, like mine, could not bring him to 
think that his daughter’s unknown lover could be a slave. 
The nurse was given orders not to leave Marie alone, and I 
was to accompany her on all her walks, from that time until 
our wedding-day, which was set for the 22d of August. My 
uncle had but little leisure, owing to the convening of the 
Provincial Assembly, the anxiety which was felt in regard to 
the menacing state of affairs, and the work on the plantations. 
At the same time, supposing that the late aspirant could only 
come from without, the estate was ordered to be more 
severely guarded than ever. 

“ These precautions taken, I decided to try an experiment. 
I went to the summer-house, repaired the disorder of the day 
before, and trimmed it again with flowers, as I had been in 
the habit of doing for Marie. 

“ When it was time for her to go there, I took my loaded 
carbine, and offered to accompany my cousin to her bower. 
The old nurse followed us. 

“ I had not told Marie that I had removed all trace of the dis- 
order from the summer-house, and stepping in first, she cried : 

“ ‘ Why, look, Leopold, my bower is still in the same state 
that I left it yesterday. All your work is spoiled, the flowers 
are torn down and withered ; what surprises me most,’ she 
added, seeing a bunch of marigolds on the green bench, ‘ is 
that this horrid bouquet is still fresh. Look, dear, it seems 
as though it had just been picked.’ 


20 


BUG-JABGAL. 


“ I stood petrified, from astonishment and rage. My work 
of the morning was entirely destroyed; and the wretched 
flowers whose freshness surprised poor Marie had been 
insolently placed where I had left roses. 

“ ‘ Calm yourself,’ said Marie, seeing my agitation ; ‘ it is a 
thing of the past; the fellow will not come here again; let us 
trample upon it, as I do on this odious bouquet.’ 

“ I was careful not to undeceive her, fearing to frighten 
her ; and without explaining that he whom she had said would 
probably ‘not come again,’ had already been there a second 
time, I let her indignantly stamp the marigolds under foot. 
I hoped that the hour had come when I might make the 
acquaintance of my mysterious rival, and I told Marie to sit 
down between her nurse and me. 

“ Hardly had I done so, when Marie put her hand on my 
lips; some sounds fell on our ears, softened by the wind and 
the noise of the stream. I listened. It was the same sad, 
slow music that had roused my rage on the previous evening. 
I was about to spring from my seat, when a sign from Marie 
restrained me. 

“ ‘ Leopold,’ she said in a low voice, ‘ keep calm. Perhaps he 
will sing, and from that we can probably discover who he is.’ 

“ A moment later a strong yet plaintive voice came from 
the depths of the woods, mingling with the sweet notes of a 
guitar. It was a Spanish romance, and each word fell so dis- 
tinctly upon my ear that even to-day I remember almost 
every one. 

“ ‘ Why dost thou flee from me, Maria ? Why, maid, dost 
thou flee from me ? Why this fear, when thou hearest me ? I 
am indeed to be feared, for I can love, and suffer, and sing ! 

“ ‘ When, among the slender cocoa-trees on the river-bank, 
I see thy form glide, pure and light, a mist comes before me, 
O Maria ! I seem to see an angel ! 

“ ‘ And when I hear, 0 Maria, the enchanting tones which 
fall from thy lips, my heart trembles, and seems to mingle its 
plaintive voice with thine. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


21 


“ ‘ Alas ! thy voice is sweeter to me than the notes of the 
birds which come from my native land. 

“ ‘ From the land where I was king, from the land where I 
was free ! 

‘“Free and a king, O maid! But for thee, I would re- 
nouuce it all, kingdom, family, duty, revenge, ah, even re- 
venge ! And yet the moment is not far distant when 1 might 
gather the sweet and bitter fruit, which ripened so late ! ’ 

lhe preceding verses were sung in a sad voice, and with 
occasional pauses j but during the last words, the voice had 
become fierce. 

“ ‘ 0 Maria ! thou art like a palm-tree, on its slender stalk, 
and thou canst see thyself in the eyes of thy youthful lover, 
like the palm-tree in the transparent water of a fountain. 

“ ‘ But dost thou not know ? At times in the desert, there 
rises a hurricane, jealous of the peace of the beloved foun- 
tain ; it rises, and the wind and the sand unite under the 
sweep of its heavy wings ; it winds about the tree and the 
source as a whirlpool of fire ; and the fountain dries up, and 
beneath the deadly breath the green leaves of the palm-tree, 
which have the majesty of a crown and the grace of waving 
locks, shrivel and die. 

Tremble, O fair daughter of Hispaniola! 1 tremble^for 
soon about thee will be only a hurricane and a desert ! Then 
thou wilt long for the love which would have led thee to me, 
as the joyous katha, bird of good omen, guides the traveller 
across the sands of Africa to the oasis. 

‘“Why dost thou repel my love, Maria? I am king, and 
my head rises above all others. Thou art white, I am black ; 
but day must join with night, in order to bring forth the 
dawn and the twilight which are more beautiful than either/ ” 

1 Our readers no doubt are aware that this was the name first given to 
San Domingo by Christopher Columbus when he discovered it in Decem- 
ber, 1492. 


22 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“A long sigh, drawn over the trembling cords of the 
guitar, accompanied the last words. I was beside myself. 
‘ King ! Black ! Slave ! ’ — a thousand confused thoughts, roused 
by the strange song I had just heard, surged through my 
brain. I was seized with a violent longing to make way with 
the unknown creature who thus dared to use the name of 
Marie in his songs of love and warning ; I grasped my car- 
bine tightly, and rushed from the arbor. Marie, frightened, 
held out her arms to detain me, but already I was in the 
thicket whence the voice had come. I searched every inch of 
brushwood, I thrust the barrel of my gun into every bush, I 
examined every tree, I peered behind every tall shrub. 
Nothing ! nothing, still nothing ! The useless search, and 
my unavailing reflection in the matter, added confusion to my 
anger. Would the insolent fellow always escape my weapon 
as he did my mind ? I could neither guess who he was, nor 
could I see him ! J ust then the sound of bells brought me 
out of my reverie. I turned. The dwarf Habibrah stood 
beside me. 

“ ‘ Good-morning, Master/ said he, bowing respectfully ; but 
his suspicious glance, turned sidewise upon me, seemed to 
express malice and triumph at my anxiety. 

“‘Tell me!’ I cried roughly, ‘have you seen any one in 
this wood ? 9 

“ ‘ Only you, Senor mio/ he calmly replied. 

“ ‘ Did you not hear a voice ? 9 I asked again. 

“ The slave waited a moment, as though wondering what to 
answer. I boiled with rage. 

“ ‘ Come/ I cried, ‘ answer quickly, you wretch ! Did you 
hear a voice anywhere ? 9 


BUG-JABGAL. 


23 


“ He looked at me boldy with his two round eyes, which 
Resembled those of a tiger-cat. 

“ ‘ Que quiere decir usted (What do you mean ?) by a voice, 
Master ? There are voices everywhere, and for everything ; 
there is the voice of the birds, there is the voice of the 
stream, there is the voice of the wind among the branches 9 — 

“ I shook him roughly. 

Wretched clown! Cease making fun of me, or I will 
make you hear the voice of my carbine. Answer me in a 
word. Have you heard a man singing a Spanish song in 
these woods ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Senor,’ he answered calmly ; 1 and there were words 
in the song too — wait, Master, I’ll tell you about it. I was 
strolling along the edge of the wood, listening to what the 
silver bells on my gorra (cap) were telling me. Suddenly 
the breeze brought to my ears some words of the language 
which you call Spanish, the language I lisped when my age 
was counted by months, not years, when I was tied to my 
mother’s back by red and yellow bands. I love this lan- 
guage ; it reminds me of the time when I was a little fellow, 
and not a dwarf, a child, and not a fool. I approached the 
spot where the voice came from, and I heard the final words 
of the song.’ 

“ ‘Well, is that all ? ’ I cried impatiently. 

“ i Yes, hermoso Master ; but if you wish, I can tell you 
who the singer was.’ 

“ I almost embraced the poor clown. 

“ ‘ Oh, speak ! ’ I cried, ‘ speak ! here is my purse, Habibrah ! 
And ten more purses shall be yours, if you will tell me who 
the man is.’ 

“ He took the purse, opened it, and smiled. 

“ ‘ Diez bolsas (ten purses) more than this ! but, demonio 
(the devil) ! that would make a full fanega (measure) of good 
crowns, with the stamp del rey Luis quince (of King Louis 
XV.), enough to sow the field of the magician Altornino, who 
understood the art of making buenos doblones grow ; but do 


24 


BUG-JARGAL. 


not be angry, young master, I will come to the point. Do 
you remember, Senor, the last words of the song : “ Thou art 
white, I am black; but day must join with night, in order 
to bring forth dawn and twilight, which are more beautiful 
than either.” And if the song speaks true, the griffe Habib- 
rah, your humble slave, born of a negress and a white man, 
is more beautiful than you, Senorito de amor. I am the child 
of day and night ; I am the dawn or the twilight, of which 
the Spanish song tells ; and you are only the day. So, I am 
more beautiful than you ; si listed quiere (by your leave), more 
beautiful than a white man.’ 

“ The dwarf murmured these strange words between great 
bursts of laughter. Again I interrupted him. 

“ ‘ What does your raving amount to ? Does all this tell 
me who was the singer of these woods ? ’ 

“ ‘ Exactly, Master,’ replied the clown, with an evil glance. 
‘ It is evident that el hornbre (the man) who could sing such 
madness, as you call it, could be, and is, none other than a 
fool like me ! I have won las diez bolsas ! ” 

“ I raised my hand to strike the freed slave for his insolent 
jesting, when suddenly a frightened cry rang out from the 
woods on the side of the arbor. It was the voice of Marie. 
I fled, on wings as it were, asking myself in terror what 
new trouble I had to fear. I reached the arbor, panting. 

“ A frightful sight awaited me. 

“ A monstrous crocodile, its body half hidden under the 
rose-bushes and the river-reeds, had thrust its huge head 
through one of the leafy arches which supported the roof of 
the arbor. Its hideous half-open jaws were about to seize a 
young colored fellow of huge stature, who was holding Marie 
with one arm, while with the other he was plunging the steel 
of a dagger into the sharp jaws of the monster. The croco- 
dile was struggling furiously against the strong arm which 
held it at bay. As I appeared at the arbor, Marie gave a cry 
of joy, wrenched herself from the arms of the negro, and fell 
fainting into mine. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


25 


“ ‘ 1 am saved ! ’ she cried. 

“ The negro turned, crossed his arms on his breast, and, 
looking sadly at the girl, stood motionless, without seeming to 
notice the crocodile near him, forgetting that he had dropped 
the dagger, and that the beast was about to devour him. 
Such would surely have happened, had I not placed Marie on 
the lap of the nurse, who still sat on the bench more dead 
than alive, and, rushing at the monster, shot the bullet from 
my carbine into his open jaws. The animal, overpowered, 
opened and closed its bloody mouth and shining eyes once or 
twice ; but it was only a spasmodic movement, and suddenly, 
with a great thud, the beast fell over upon its back, stiffening 
out its huge scaly paws. It was dead. 

“.The negro whose life I had been fortunate enough to 
save, turned and watched the monster’s final convulsions ; 
then his eyes sought the ground, but, raising them slowly to 
Marie, who had returned to my arms, he said to me in a more 
than hopeless tone : — 

“ ‘ Porque le has matado ? ’ (Why did you kill him ? ) 

“ And without waiting for my reply, he strode away 
toward the woods and disappeared.” 


26 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ This terrible scene, its strange end, the various emotions 
which had preceded and followed my vain search through the 
woods, threw my head into a whirl. Marie was still silent 
from fright; and a few moments elapsed before we could 
express our incoherent thoughts in any way except by looks, 
and pressing each other’s hands. Finally I broke the silence. 

“ ‘ Come, Marie, come away from this place ! There is 
something fatal about it ! ’ 

“ She rose hastily, as though only waiting for my permis- 
sion ; and leaning on my arm, we left. 

“ I asked her how it had happened that the black had 
appeared just at the moment of such terrible danger, and if 
she knew who he was ; for the fellow’s clothing, which only 
half concealed his body, showed that he belonged to the lowest 
class of the islanders. 

“‘The man,’ said Marie, ‘is probably one of my father’s 
negroes, who was at work near the river just as the crocodile 
appeared which made me give the cry you heard. All I can 
tell you is, that in an instant he had sprung from the woods 
to help me.’ 

“ ‘ From which side did he come ? ’ I asked. 

“‘From the side opposite the one where we heard the 
singing a while ago, and where you entered the wood.’ 

“This explanation upset the connection which my mind 
had been making between this negro who had spoken to me 
in Spanish just as he left, and my unknown rival who had 
sung the song in the same language. Other facts were at 
work in my mind. This negro, of a stature almost gigantic, of 
prodigious strength, might be the rough adversary against 
whom I had struggled the preceding night. The fact of his^ 


BUG-JABGAL. 


27 


being naked struck me forcibly. The singer of the woods 
had sung, ‘ I am black, 5 — another mark of similitude. He 
had declared himself king; this one was a slave; but I re- 
membered, not without surprise, the look of rough majesty 
imprinted on his face, with the characteristic signs of the 
African race, — the shining eyes, the white teeth against the 
shining black skin, the wide forehead, especially surprising in 
a negro, the scornful curl which gave to his thick lips and nos- 
trils a haughty and powerful look, the dignity of his bearing, 
the beauty of his form, which, although thin and worn from 
the fatigues of daily labor, still showed Herculean develop- 
ment. I recalled the imposing appearance of the slave, and 
said to myself that he was well fitted for a king. Then, 
remembering a crowd of other incidents, I groaned aloud at 
the negro’s insolence ; I wanted to find him, and punish him. 
. . . And then all my doubts returned. What, indeed, was 
the ground of my suspicions ? The island of San Domingo 
was, to a great extent, owned by Spain ; therefore many 
negroes, whether they had originally belonged to the colonists 
of San Domingo or had been born there, mingled the lan- 
guage of Spain with their own. And because this negro had 
addressed a few words of Spanish to me, was this a reason 
for supposing him to be the singer of that Spanish romance, 
which showed a degree of mental culture entirely unknown 
among the negroes ? As to his strange reproach at my hav- 
ing killed the crocodile, it showed a distaste for the life 
which his position necessitated ; and surely I need not resort 
to a theory of a hopeless love for the daughter of his master. 
His having been in the woods near the arbor was most fortu- 
nate ; his strength and size were far from satisfying me as to 
his being my nocturnal antagonist. Were these the frail 
proofs on which I could accuse him before my uncle, and sub- 
mit to the cruel vengeance of his pride a poor slave who had 
so bravely saved Marie ? 

“ As these thoughts were fighting against my anger, Marie 
settled the question by this remark : — 


28 


BUG-JARGAL. 


Leopold, we ought to be very grateful to that brave 
negro ; without him I should have been killed ! You would 
have come too late.’ 

“ These words decided me. They did not alter my deter- 
mination to find the slave who had saved Marie, but they 
changed my reasons for finding him. I had intended pun- 
ishment ; now I would reward him. 

“My uncle learned from me that he owed his daughter’s 
life to one of his slaves, and promised me that he would free 
him if I could find him among the many. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


29 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Until then my natural disposition had led me to avoid 
the plantation where the blacks worked. It affected me too 
deeply to see the sufferings of those whom I could not aid. 
But when, the following day, my uncle suggested that I ac- 
company him on his tour of inspection, I readily consented, 
hoping that I might find among the workers the one who had 
saved my beloved Marie. 

“ During our walk, I could not help noticing what power a 
master has over his slaves, but at the same time how dearly 
bought is that power. The negroes trembled in the presence 
of my uncle, and redoubled their labors ; but in their fear 
of him what hatred there was ! 

“ Irritable from habit, my uncle was ready to become angry 
at anything, when his clown Habibrah, who always followed 
him, suddenly called his attention to a black, who, worn out 
with labor, was asleep beneath a clump of date-trees. My 
uncle ran to him, shook him roughly, and ordered him to return 
to work. The negro, frightened, rose, and in so doing exposed 
a young Bengal rosebush, against which he had been uncon- 
sciously leaning, and which had been planted by my uncle. 
The bush was killed. The master, already irritated at what 
he called the slave’s idleness, now became furious. Beside 
himself with rage, he unhooked from his waist the whip 
of steel thongs which he always carried on his walks, and 
raised it to strike the negro, who had dropped upon his knees. 
But the whip never fell. I shall never forget it. A strong 
hand suddenly stayed that of the colonist, and a black (the 
very one I sought ! ) cried out in French : — 

“ ‘ Punish me, for I have offended you ; but do not harm 
my brother, who has only touched^your rosebush.’ 


30 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“The sudden interference of the man to whom I owed 
Marie’s life, his gestures, his look, the proud tone of his voice, 
struck me dumb. But his generous rashness, far from mak- 
ing my uncle ashamed, served only to increase his rage, and to 
turn it from the victim to his defender. My uncle, exaspe- 
rated, disengaged himself from the negro’s grasp, heaping 
threats upon him, and again raised the whip to strike him in 
turn. This time the whip was wrenched from his hand. The 
black broke the rod studded with nails, as one would break a 
straw, and stamped under foot the shameful instrument of 
torture. I was motionless with amazement, my uncle with 
fury ; it was an unheard-of thing for his authority to be thus 
defied. His eyes looked as though they would spring from 
their sockets; his white lips trembled. The slave watched 
him an instant calmly ; then suddenly he handed him, in a 
dignified way, an axe which he held. 

“ 1 White man,’ said he, 1 if you wish to strike me, at least 
use this axe.’ 

“ My uncle, still beside himself with rage, would surely 
have done so, had I not interposed. I quickly seized the axe, 
and threw it into an adjacent noira. 

“ ‘What are you doing?’ asked my uncle. 

“ ‘ 1 am saving you,’ I replied, ‘ the mistake of striking the 
man who saved your daughter. You owe Marie’s life to this 
slave ; this is the negro whom you promised to set free.’ 

“ The moment was ill-chosen for referring to his promise. 
My words were scarcely heard by the indignant colonist. 

“ ‘ His liberty ! ’ he cried, ‘ yes, he deserves it ! His liberty ! 
We shall see what sort of liberty it is that the judges of the 
court-martial give him.’ 

“ The ill-omened words petrified me. It was in vain that 
Marie and I begged for mercy. The negro whose negligence 
had been the cause of all the trouble was punished by a flog- 
ging ; and his defender was sent to the dungeon of Fort Gali- 
fet, convicted of having raised his arm against a white man. 
From a slave to a master, this was a capital crime. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


31 


CHAPTER XI. 

“You may imagine, gentlemen, how great was my interest 
and curiosity. I made inquiries about the prisoner, and dis- 
covered strange facts. They told me that his comrades 
seemed to have the greatest respect for him. Though a slave 
like them, it needed but a sign from him for them to obey 
him. He had not been born in the huts on the island ; his 
father and mother were not known ; several years before 
that, they said, a negro vessel had landed him at San 
Domingo. This fact made his influence over the others still 
more remarkable, not excepting even the creoles, who, as you 
probably know, gentlemen, usually have the greatest scorn 
for the Congo negroes (the term is unsuitable and too gen- 
eral a one, but by ik is meant all the slaves brought from 
Africa). 

“ Although he seemed lost in a deep melancholy, his great 
strength and marvellous bearing made him very valuable on 
the plantations. He turned the wheels of the norias more 
quickly and for a longer time than the best horse; and often 
he did in one day the work of ten other slaves, in order 
to save them from the punishment inflicted for neglect or 
fatigue. So the slaves adored him, but their adoration was 
entirely different from the superstitious terror they felt for 
the fool Habibrah ; it seemed to have some hidden cause ; it 
was a sort of worship. 

“ The strangest thing, they continued, was that he was as 
gentle and as simple with his equals, who thought it an honor 
to obey him, as he was proud and haughty to his masters. 
It must be said that the privileged slaves, intermediate links 
as it were between slavery and despotism, joined to their 
low position the insolence of their authority, and took an 


32 


BUG-JARGAL. 


evil delight in overwhelming him with work and trials. 
Nevertheless, they could not but respect the proud spirit 
which had defied my uncle. None of them had ever dared 
to punish him. If he was condemned, twenty negroes offered 
to take his place ; and he, immovable, calmly assisted at their 
punishment, as though they were only doing their duty. 
This strange man was known among the huts as Pierrot. 


BUG-JAEGAL. 


83 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ These details roused my youthful curiosity. Marie, full 
of gratitude and sympathy, added to my enthusiasm ; and 
Pierrot became of such interest to us that I resolved to see 
him, and perhaps help him. I considered how I could best 
speak with him. 

“ Although very young, as nephew of one of the richest col- 
onists on the Cape, I was captain of the militia of the parish 
of FAcul. Fort Galifet was entrusted to them, and to a 
detachment of yellow dragoons, whose chief, usually a sub- 
lieutenant in this company, commanded the fort. It hap- 
pened, at this time, that the commander was the brother of 
a poor colonist for whom I had had the honor of doing a 
great service, and who was perfectly devoted to me ” — 

At this point in the story the listeners interrupted d’Au- 
verney, to shout Thadee’s name. 

“ You have guessed rightly, gentlemen,” replied the captain. 
“You can easily see that it was not hard to gain from him 
access to the negro’s dungeon. As captain of the militia, I 
had the right to visit the fort. However, to avoid rousing 
the suspicion of my uncle, whose anger was still great, I 
was careful to go there when he Avas taking his afternoon 
nap. All the soldiers, except those on guard, were sleeping. 
Guided by Thadee, I reached the door of the prison. Thadee 
opened it and withdrew. I entered. 

“The black was seated; he could not stand on account of 
his great height. He was not alone ; an enormous mastiff 
rose and advanced toward me, growling. ‘Rask!’ cried the 
black. The young mastiff became silent, and returned to the 
feet of his master, where he was eating some scanty crusts. 

“ I was in my uniform, and the light which came from the 


84 


BUG-JARGAL. 


vent-hole into this narrow dungeon was so faint that Pierrot 
could not distinguish me. 

“ ‘ I am ready/ he said calmly. 

“ He half rose. 

“ 1 1 am ready/ he repeated. 

“ ‘ I thought/ said I, surprised at the freedom of his move- 
ments, ‘ 1 thought that you were in irons.’ 

“ My emotion made my voice tremble, but the prisoner did 
not appear to notice it. 

“ He pushed away something which rattled. 

“ ‘ Irons ! I broke them.’ 

“ In the tone of the last words there was something which 
seemed to say, ‘ I was not born to wear irons.’ I continued : — 

“ ‘ I was not told that they allowed you a dog.’ 

“ ‘ It is I who had him brought here.’ 

“I was growing more and more astonished. The prison- 
door was locked on the outside by a triple bolt. The vent- 
hole was hardly six thumbs in width, and was barred across 
with two iron rails. He seemed to comprehend the direction 
of my thoughts ; for, rising as much as the low ceiling would 
permit, he detached, without effort, an enormous stone below 
the vent-hole, removed the two bars which were fastened on 
the outside of the stone, and thus effected an opening large 
enough for two men to pass through. This opening looked 
out upon the banana and cocoanut trees which covered the 
mountain against which the fort was built. 

“ Surprise rendered me mute. Suddenly a ray of light fell 
upon my face. The prisoner recoiled as though he had un- 
consciously stepped upon a serpent, his head striking against 
a stone in the ceiling. An indescribable mingling of a thou- 
sand different feelings, a strange expression of hatred, kind- 
ness, and sad surprise, passed rapidly across his face. But 
quickly recovering himself, in less than an instant his fea- 
tures became calm and cold again, and he gazed indifferently 
at me, as though he did not know me. 

“ ‘ I can still live two days without food/ said he. 


BUG-JAliGAL. 


35 


“ I made a gesture of horror, and noticed how thin he was. 
He added : — 

“ ‘ My dog will only eat from my hand ; had I not been able 
to enlarge the opening, poor Rask would have died of hunger. 
It would better be I than he, since I must die anyway/ 

“ ‘No, ’ I cried, ‘no ! you shall not die of hunger/ 

“ He did not understand. 

“ ‘ No doubt,’ said he, smiling bitterly, ‘ I can still live two 
days without food ; but I am ready, officer ; to-day would be 
better than to-morrow ; only do not harm Rask/ 

“I understood then what he had meant by, ( I am ready / 
Convicted of a crime punishable by death, he thought that 
I had come to lead him to the scaffold ; and this man of colos- 
sal strength, when every means of flight were open to him, 
was as gentle and docile as a little child, repeating the words, 
‘ I am ready ! ’ 

“ ‘ Do not harm Rask,’ he said again. 

“I could contain myself no longer. 

“ ‘ What ! ’ I cried, ‘ you not only take me for your execu- 
tioner, but you even doubt my treatment of your poor dog, 
who has never wronged me.’ 

“ He was touched, his voice changed. 

“ ‘ White man,’ said he, extending his hand, ‘ white man, 
pardon. I love my dog ; and,’ he added, after a moment’s 
silence, ‘ your people have done me much harm/ 

“ I embraced him, I grasped his hand, and let him know 
who I was. 

“ ‘ Do you not know me ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ I know that you are a white man, and whoever a white 
man is, a black is of so little importance to him. Besides, I 
have cause enough to complain of you.’ 

“ ‘ For what reason ? ’ I asked, astonished. 

“ ‘ Have you not twice saved my life ? ’ 

“ The strange accusation made me smile. 

“ He noticed it, and continued bitterly. 

“ ‘ Yes, I ought to bear you ill-will. You rescued me from 


36 


BUG-JABGAL. 


a crocodile and a colonist ; and what is still worse, you have 
robbed me of the right to hate you. I am indeed unhappy ! ’ 

“ His strange words and ideas no longer surprised me. 
They were in perfect harmony with the man. 

“ 1 I owe you much more than you owe me/ I said. ‘ I owe 
to you the life of my fiancee, Marie.’ 

“ The word was like an electric shock to him. 

“ ‘ Maria ! 9 he cried, in a choking voice ; his head fell for- 
ward into his hands, which clutched each other violently, 
while deep sighs wrung themselves from his breast. 

“ I confess that my slumbering suspicions had been roused, 
but without anger, without jealousy. I was too close to hap- 
piness, he was too near death, for such a rival, had he been 
that, to excite in me anything but kindness and pity. 

“ Finally he raised his head. 

“ ‘ Go ! ’ said he, ‘ do not thank me.’ 

•** After a pause, he added, — 

“ ‘ But I belong to a class not inferior to yours ! 9 

“ These words were a revelation which greatly roused my 
curiosity. I begged him to tell me who he was, and what he 
had suffered ; but he preserved a sombre silence. 

“ My manner, however, had touched him ; my offer to help 
him, and my prayers, seemed to conquer his disgust of life. 
He went out and gathered some bananas and a huge cocoanut. 
Then he closed the opening, and began to eat. In talking with 
him, I saw that he spoke French and Spanish equally well, 
and that his mind was not uneducated ; he knew several Span- 
ish romances, which he sang with much expression. The 
man had been so strange in all other respects, that until then 
the purity of his language had not struck me. Again I asked 
him about himself, but he preserved the same silence. Fi- 
nally I left him, telling my faithful Thadee to give him all 
the attention possible. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


37 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ I saw him daily at the same hour. He caused me great 
anxiety; for, in spite of my prayers, my uncle obstinately 
refused to pardon him. I did not conceal my fear from 
Pierrot, but he heard me with indifference. 

“ Often Rask would come in while we were together, with a 
large palm-leaf tied about his neck. The negro would unfas- 
ten it, read the strange characters upon it, and then destroy 
it. I was not in the habit of questioning him. 

“ One day I entered without his apparently noticing me. 
He stood with his back to the door of his prison, singing a 
Spanish air in a sad voice : 1 Yo que soy contrabandist a? (I 
who am a smuggler). When he finished, he turned to me sud- 
denly : — 

“ 1 Brother/ said he, ‘ promise, if you ever doubt me, that 
all your suspicions shall vanish when you hear this song/ 

“ His glance was imposing. I promised what he asked with- 
out well knowing what he meant by the words : ‘ If ever you 
doubt me .’ He took the hollow rind of the nut which he had 
kept since the day I had first visited him, filled it with wine 
from the palm-tree, touched my lips to it, and emptied it at a 
draught. From that day he never addressed me in any way 
except as ‘Brother? 

il I was beginning to hope a little. My uncle did not seem 
as irritable as usual. The joys of my approaching marriage 
with his daughter had turned his thoughts into pleasanter 
channels. Marie, as well as myself, begged for the poor 
slave’s pardon. Every day I explained to him that Pierrot 
had not meant to offend him, but that he only had prevented 
him from being too severe ; I said that the black had, by his 
brave struggle with the crocodile, saved Marie from sure 


88 


BUG-JABGAL. 


death ; and that we owed him, he his daughter, I my fiancee ; 
and that, moreover, Pierrot was the strongest of all the slaves 
(I had given up gaining his liberty, and was only hoping for 
his life), that he alone did the work of ten, and that his arm 
by itself moved the cylinders of the sugar-mill. He listened, 
and gave me to understand that he would not follow up the 
accusation. I did not mention this to the black, wishing to 
enjoy the pleasure of telling him myself that he was entirely 
free, if I could gain this promise. What astonished me in 
the man was, that, although he believed that he had to die, 
he took advantage of none of the means of escape which were 
in his power. I spoke to him on this subject. 

“ 1 1 must remain here,’ he replied coldly ; i they would 
think that I was afraid.’ 


BUG-JARGAL. 


39 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ One morning Marie came to me, radiant, with a look on 
her sweet face that was more beautiful than the joy of a 
pure love; it was the thought of a good deed. 

“ ‘ Listen/ said she ; ‘ in three days it will be the 22d of 
August, our wedding-day. We shall soon’ — 

“ I interrupted her : — 

“ ‘ Marie, do not call it soon, when there are still three days.’ 

“ She smiled and blushed. 

“ 1 Do not tease me, Leopold/ she continued ; ‘ an idea has 
occurred to me which will make you happy. You know that 
yesterday I went to town with father to buy my wedding- 
jewels. I do not care very much about having these diamonds, 
which will make me no more beautiful in your eyes than I 
am already. I would give every pearl in the world for one 
of those flowers which that wretched man destroyed, with his 
bunch of marigolds ; but never mind that. My father wants 
to give me all these things, and to please him I pretend that 
I want them. Yesterday I saw a basquina of china satin, 
with designs of great flowers on it, in a box of scented wood. 
It is very costly and very beautiful. My father noticed that 
this gown attracted me. As we came home, I asked him to 
give me a gift, as the ancient chevaliers used to do ; you know 
he likes to be compared to them. He gave me his word of 
honor that he would give me anything I asked for. He 
thought it was the basquina of china silk ; not at all, it was 
Pierrot's life. This shall be my wedding-gift.’ 

“I took my angel in my arms. My uncle’s word was 
sacred to him ; and when Marie went to claim the promise, I 
ran to Port Galifet to tell Pierrot of his pardon, which was 
now assured. 


40 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ ‘ Brother/ I cried as I entered, ‘ Brother, rejoice ! Your life 
is saved ! Marie asked it of her father as her wedding-gift.’ 

“ The slave trembled. 

« ( Marie ! Wedding ! My life How can all this go to- 
gether ? 1 

“ 1 It is all very simple/ I explained. ‘ Marie, whose life 
you saved, is to be married.’ 

“ < To whom ? ’ cried the slave. His glance was fierce and 
terrible. 

“ ‘ Do you not know ? ’ I asked gently ; 1 to me.’ 

“ His face became quiet again and resigned. 

“ < Ah ! that is true/ said he ; * to be sure it is to you ! 
When is the date ? 1 

“ * August 22.’ 

“ ‘ August 22 ! Are you mad ? ’ he cried, with a look of 
agony and terror. 

“ Then he stopped. I watched him, amazed. After a 
pause he shook my hand, and said earnestly : — 

“ ‘ Brother, I owe you so much that I must give you some 
advice. Listen to it. Go to the Cape and be married before 
August 22.’ 

“ In vain I asked the meaning of these mysterious words. 

“ 1 Farewell/ he said solemnly. 1 Perhaps I have already 
said too much ; but I despise ingratitude more than I do 
perjury.’ 

“ I left him, full of anxiety and indecision, but I was very 
soon cheered by the thoughts of my approaching happiness. 

“My uncle withdrew his complaint that same day. I re- 
turned to the fort to free Pierrot. Thadee, knowing that he 
was pardoned, entered the cell with me, but Pierrot was 
no longer there. Bask, who was alone, came to me in a 
caressing way ; about his neck was tied a palm-leaf. I took 
it and read these words : ‘ Thank you, you have saved my 
life a third time. Brother, forget not your promise.’ Below 
Avere written, like a signature, these words : ‘ Yo que soy con- 
trabandista .’ 


BUG-JABGAL. 


41 


“ Thadee was even more surprised than I ; he did not 
know the secret of the vent-hole, and imagined that the negro 
had changed himself into a dog. I let him think what he 
pleased, content in exacting silence for what he had seen. 

“ I wanted to take away Rask with me ; but, in leaving the 
fort, he hid in the adjoining hedge, and disappeared. 


42 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ My uncle was very angry at the slave’s escape. He 
ordered that a search be made, and wrote to the governor 
that if he found Pierrot, he (the governor) might do as he 
pleased with him. The 22d of August arrived. My mar- 
riage with Marie was celebrated with great pomp in the 
parish church of l’Acul. How happy she was on that day, 
from which was to date all our trouble ! I was intoxicated 
with a joy that one cannot understand, unless one has expe- 
rienced it. I had completely forgotten Pierrot and his omi- 
nous advice. At last the evening came for which I had so 
long waited. My young wife retired to the bridal-chamber, 
but I was detained by a trifling but necessary duty. As cap- 
tain of the militia, I was compelled that evening to make a 
tour of the posts of l’Acul ; this precaution was absolutely 
necessary on account of the trouble in the colony, and the 
revolts of the blacks, which, although promptly quelled, had 
occurred in the preceding June and July, and even in the 
early part of August, in the Thibaud and Lagoscette settle- 
ments, and especially on account of the ill-humor of the free 
mulattoes, which the recent punishment of the rebel Oge had 
served to augment. My uncle was the first to remind me of 
my duty, and I had to resign myself to it. I donned my uni- 
form, and left. I visited the first stations without seeing any 
cause for alarm ; but toward midnight, as I was strolling 
dreamily along near the batteries which skirted the bay, I 
noticed on the horizon a red glow, which rose and spread 
from the side of Limonade and San-Louis du Morin. The 
soldiers and I at first thought it came from some accidental 
fire; but a moment later the flames became so apparent, and 
the smoke, driven by the wind, was so dense and dark, that I 


B UG-JARGAL. 


43 


turned quickly back to the fort to sound the alarm and send 
aid. As I passed by the huts of our blacks, I was surprised 
at the unusual agitation which reigned there. The most of 
them were already awake, and were talking in the most 
excited manner. A strange name, Bag-Jargal , uttered with 
reverence, rang out over and over again in the midst of their 
unintelligible jargon. However, I managed to catch a few 
words, and discovered that the blacks of the northern plain 
were in open revolt, and that they had set fire to the settle- 
ments and plantations on the other side of the Cape. Crossing 
a swampy place, I ran against a pile of axes and hatchets 
hidden in the rushes and reeds. Thoroughly alarmed, I 
placed the soldiers of l’Acul under arms without delay, and 
ordered them to watch the slaves ; then quiet was at length 
restored. 

“ However, the trouble seemed increasing at every moment, 
and it looked as though it were approaching du Limbe. Even 
the distant sound of artillery and fusillade could be heard. 
Toward two o’clock in the morning my uncle, whom I had 
roused, could not conceal his anxiety, and ordered me to send 
to l’Acul, a company of soldiers under the command of the 
lieutenant ; and so, while my poor Marie slept or waited for 
me, I set out for the Cape with the other soldiers. We did 
this by order of my uncle, who was, as I have already said, a 
member of the Provincial Assembly. 

« I shall never forget the sight of that city as I approached 
it. The flames were licking up the surrounding plantations, 
and spreading a lurid glare over all, half-obscured by the 
clouds of smoke which the wind blew across the streets. 
Showers of sparks from the crackling sugar-cane were drop- 
ping like falling snow upon the roofs of the houses and the 
rigging of the vessels anchored in the stream. Every moment 
the city of the Cape was threatened with fire no less fatal 
than that to which the surrounding country was a victim. 
It was a frightful and imposing spectacle to see, on one side, 
the pale inhabitants risking their very lives in their terrible 


44 


BUG-JARGAL. 


struggle to save tlie one roof which was to be all that was 
left them of such wealth ; while, on the other side, the ships, 
fearing a like fate, but favored at least by the wind which 
was fatal to the colonists, set out with full sail across a sea 
tinged with the bloody fire of incendiarism. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


45 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“ Deafened by the cannon from Hie forts, the cries of the 
fugitives, and the distant noise of falling buildings, I did not 
know in what direction to turn, when I met, on the place of 
arms, the captain of the yellow dragoons, who offered to guide 
us. I will not stop, gentlemen, to describe the picture of the 
burning plain. Others have painted the early disasters of 
the Cape, and I must- pass quickly over these recollections of 
blood and fire. I will merely state that the rebel slaves were 
already masters of the Dondon, Terrier-Rouge, of the city of 
Ouanaminte, and even of the unfortunate plantations of the 
Limbe, a fact which filled me with anxiety on account of its 
close proximity to PAcul. I rushed to the house of the gover- 
nor, Monsieur de Blanchelande. Everything there was in 
confusion. I asked him to give me orders, begging him to 
look to the safety of PAcul, which was thought already to be 
in danger. There were with him Monsieur de Rouvray, the 
field-marshal and one of the chief property owners of the 
island; Monsieur de Touzard, lieutenant-colonel of the regi- 
ment of the Cape ; some members of the Colonial and Provin- 
cial Assemblies, and several of the best-known colonists. At 
the time of my arrival they were holding an agitated meeting. 

“ ‘ Governor/ a member of the Provincial Assembly was 
saying, 6 that is only too true ; they are the slaves, and not the 
free half-breeds. We have been expecting and predicting it 
for a long time.’ 

“ 1 You predicted it, without really believing it would hap- 
pen/ bitterly replied a member of the Colonial Assembly, 
called the General Assembly. 1 You said so, in order to gain 
credit at our expense ; and you were so far from expecting a 
real uprising of the slaves, that it was the intrigues of your 


46 


BUG-JARGAL. 


Assembly, which in 1789 pretended that famous and absurd 
revolt of the three thousand blacks on the mountain of the 
Cape, a revolt in which only one man was killed, and he by 
his own comrades ! 9 

“ 1 1 tell you/ replied the Provincial , 1 that we see farther 
ahead than you. It is very simple. We remained here to 
watch the affairs of the colony, while your Assembly went to 
France to decree that absurd ovation, which wa§ reprimanded 
by the National Representatives ; ridiculus mus ! ’ 

“ The Colonial member replied scornfully : 

“ ‘ Our fellow-citizens re-elected us unanimously ! 9 

“ ‘ It was you/ replied the other, ‘ it was your exaggeration 
that beheaded that miserable wretch. You appeared in a 
cafe without a tricolored cockade ; it was you who hung the 
mulatto Lacombe for a petition beginning with the unusual 
words, “ In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the 
Holy Ghost ! ” 7 

“ ‘ That is false ! 9 cried the other. ‘ It is the war of prin- 
ciples and privileges, of the bossus and the crochus ! 9 

“ 1 I have always thought, sir, that you were an Indepen- 
dent ! ’ 

“ At this term of reproach, his opponent replied trium- 
phantly : 

“ ‘ That is confessing that you are a White Cockade. I 
leave you under the weight of such a confession ! ’ 

“The quarrel might have gone further, had not the gover- 
nor interfered. 

“‘Well, gentlemen ! what has all this to do with the present 
danger which threatens us ? Advise me, instead of arguing 
with each other. Here is the news which comes to me. 
The revolt began this evening in the settlement of Turpin. 
The slaves, led by an English negro named Bouckmann, have 
destroyed the shops in the settlements of Clement, Tremes, 
Flaville, and Noe. They have burned all the plantations, and 
massacred the colonists in a most cruel manner. I can 
make you comprehend the horror of it all in a word. Their 


BUG-JARGAL. 


47 


standard is the body of a child, stuck on the point of a 
sword.’ 

“ Groans of horror interrupted Monsieur de Blanchelande. 

“ ‘ This is what is taking place,’ he continued, ‘ outside. 
Within all is confusion. Several inhabitants of the Cape 
have killed their slaves ; fear made them cruel. The gentlest 
and bravest are contented to lock up the slaves. The petits 
blancs (whites, not property-owners, carrying on some indus- 
try in the colony) accuse the half-breeds of these troubles. 
Several mulattoes have just escaped, being victims of the 
popular fury. I gave them a church, guarded by a battalion, 
as a place of shelter. Now, to prove that they have not the 
same intelligence as the revolting blacks, the half-breeds 
have asked me for a post to defend, and firearms.’ 

“ ‘ Do not grant them ! ’ cried a voice, which I recognized 
as that of the planter suspected of being a half-breed, and 
with whom I had fought. 1 Do not give firearms to the mu- 
lattoes, Governor.’ 

“ ‘ You do not want to fight, then ? ’ a colonist asked 
quickly. 

“ The other appeared not to hear, and continued : — 

“ ‘ The half-breeds are our worst enemies. They alone are 
to be feared by us. I know that we may expect a revolt 
from them, and not from the slaves. Are the slaves of any ac- 
count ? ’ The poor man was hoping by his invectives against 
the mulattoes to separate himself from them completely, and 
to destroy in the minds of the whites who heard him all idea 
of his belonging to this despised class. The effort was too 
cowardly to succeed. A murmur of disapproval proved it. 

“ ‘ Yes, sir,’ cried the old field-marshal De Rouvray, ‘ the 
slaves are of some account ; they are forty against three ; and 
we would indeed have cause to complain, had we only whites 
like yourself to fight against the negroes and mulattoes.’ 

“ The colonist bit his lip. 

“ 1 General,’ resumed the governor, ‘ what do you think of 
the petition of the mulattoes ? ’ 


48 


BUG-JABGAL. 


“ 1 Give them firearms, Governor ! 9 exclaimed Monsieur de 
Rouvray, ‘ let us sail under all conditions ! ’ And, turning to 
the suspected colonist, ‘ Do you hear, sir ? Arm yourselves/ 
“ The humiliated colonist withdrew in concentrated rage. 

“ The clamor and shouts of agony from the city began to 
be heard at the governor’s, and reminded the members of the 
council for what they had met. 

“ Monsieur de Blanchelande gave a hastily pencilled order 
to the aide-de-camp, and broke the silence by : — 

“ ‘ The half-breeds want arms, gentlemen ; but there are 
several other steps to be taken first/ 

“ ‘ The Provincial Assembly must be convened/ cried the 
member who had been speaking as I entered. 

“ ‘ The Provincial Assembly ! 9 replied his opponent of the 
Colonial Assembly. ‘ Why does such a thing as this Provin- 
cial Assembly exist ? 9 

“ < Because you are a member of the Colonial Assembly ! 9 
replied the White Cockade. 

“ The Independent interrupted him. 

“ ‘ I know neither a Colonial nor a Provincial Assembly. 
There is only a General Assembly, sir/ 

“ ‘ Well/ replied the White Cockade, 1 I will tell you this ; 
there is none other except the National Assembly of Paris/ 

“ ‘ Convene the Provincial Assembly ! ’ repeated the Inde- 
pendent, laughing, ‘ as though it had not been dissolved 
as soon as the general decided to hold meetings here/ 

“ A general protest burst from the members, who were 
weary of this tiresome discussion. 

“ * Gentlemen/ said a cultivator, ( while you are engaged 
in all this nonsense, what is becoming of my cotton-trees 
and my cochineal ? ’ 

“ ‘ And of my four hundred thousand plants of indigo at 
the Limbe ? 9 added a planter. 

“ ‘ And my negroes, paid thirty dollars a head ? 9 said 
a captain of a slave-ship. 

“ ‘ Every minute you waste/ continued another colonist, 


BUG-JARGAL. 


49 


‘ costs me, watch and price-list in hand, ten hundredweight 
of sugar, which, at seventeen piasters the hundredweight, 
makes one hundred and thirty pounds and ten sous, in French 
money ! 9 

“ ‘ The Colonial, which you term “ General” is an usurper ! J 
cried the other member, adding to the confusion by his loud 
voice; ‘let it stay at Port-au-Prince, and issue decrees for 
two leagues of earth and two days of duration; but let it 
leave us here in peace. The Cape belongs to the Provincial 
Congress of the north, and to that alone ! 9 

“ ‘ I assume/ continued the Independent, ‘ that the governor 
has no right to convene any assembly except the general one 
of the representatives of the colony, the president of which 
is Monsieur de Cadusch.’ 

“‘But where is your president, Monsieur de Cadusch ? * 
asked the White Cockade ; ‘ where is your assembly ? As yet 
only four members have arrived, while every member of the 
Provincial Assembly is present. Do you yourself want to 
represent a whole assembly, a whole colony ? J 

“This rivalry between the two members, faithful echoes 
of their respective assemblies, again brought down the inter- 
vention of the governor. 

“ ‘ Gentlemen, of what use are your eternal assemblies, the 
Provincial , the General , the Colonial , the National ? Would 
you help the decisions of this Assembly by calling in three or 
four others ? ’ 

“ ‘ Zounds ! ? cried General de Rouvray, in a voice of thunder, 
striking the table violently, ‘ what nonsense this is ! I would 
rather pound my chest with a franc. Of what use are these 
two assemblies, fighting like two companies of soldiers going 
to an attack ? Well, convene Jpoth of them, Governor. I will 
form them both into two regiments, and march against the 
blacks; and we shall see if their guns can make as much 
noise as their tongues/ 

“ After this vigorous speech, he leaned toward his neighbor 
(myself), and said in a low tone : ‘ What can you expect a 


50 


BUG-JABGAL. 


governor on the side of the King of France to do between two 
assemblies of San Domingo, who think themselves sovereigns ? 
They are fine speakers and lawyers, who spoil everything in 
this metropolis. If I had the honor of being the lieutenant- 
general, I would throw all this out of the door. I would say, 
“ The King reigns, and I govern.” I would throw the re- 
sponsibility of the so-called representatives to the devil ; and 
with twelve crosses of Saint Louis, promises in the name of 
His Majesty, I would sweep every rebel onto the island of the 
Tortue, which formerly was inhabited by freebooters like 
themselves. Remember what I tell you, young man. Phi- 
losophers brought forth philanthropists , who bore necrophiles , 
who produce the white eaters , so-called until a Greek or a 
Latin name is found for them. These pretended liberal ideas, 
which in France rouse one’s spirits, are poison in the tropics. 
The negroes must be gently dealt with, not suddenly called 
to freedom. All the horrors which you see to-day began at 
the Massiac Club ; and the revolt of the slaves only offsets the 
fall of the Bastile.’ 

“ While the old soldier was explaining his politics, which, 
although narrow, were frank and full of conviction, the 
stormy discussion continued. A colonist, one of the few who 
were revolution-mad, and who called himself Citizen-General 
C , because he had been present at several bloody execu- 

tions, cried out : — 

Punishment is more needed than war. The nations 
want terrible examples ; let us frighten the blacks ! It was 
I who quieted the revolts of June and July, by planting the 
heads of fifty slaves along the road to my plantation, as I 
would plant palm-trees. Let us all join together, and carry 
out the plan I am going to ^suggest. Let us protect the 
approaches to the Cape with the negroes we have.’ 

“ ‘ What rashness ! How absurd ! ’ came from all sides. 

“‘You do not understand, gentlemen,’ continued the 
Citizen- General. ‘Let us make a cordon of negro heads 
about the city, from Fort Picolet to Caracol ; their rebel 


BUG-JARGAL . 


51 


companions will not dare to approach. One must sacrifice 
one’s self for the common cause at a time like this. I will 
begin. I have five hundred slaves who have not revolted; 

I will offer them to you.’ 

“ The dreadful proposition was received with cries of 
horror. 

“ ‘ It is frightful ! It is horrible ! ’ exclaimed every one. 

“ ‘ It is acts of this kind which have lost everything,’ said 
a colonist. ‘ If they had not been in such haste to execute 
the last rebels of June, July, and August, they could have 
found the thread of the conspiracy, which the hangman’s axe 
cut in two.’ 

“ The Citizen C preserved an angry silence for a 

moment, then he muttered between his teeth, — 

“ ‘ However, I did not think I should be suspected. I am 
connected with the negrophiles ; I am in correspondence with 
Brissot and Pruneau de Pomme-Gouge, in France ; Hans-Sloane, 
in England ; Magaw, in America ; Pezll, in Germany ; Oliva- 
rius, in Denmark; Wadstrohm, in Sweden; Peter Paulus, 
in Holland; Avendano, in Spain; and Abbe Pierre Tambu- 
rini, in Italy ! ’ 

“His voice rose as he continued to enumerate the list of 
negrophiles. Finally, he ended with, — 

“ ‘ But there are no philosophers here ! ’ 

“ Monsieur de Blanchelande, for the third time, asked the 
members for suggestions. 

at Governor,’ said some one, ‘ my advice is for us all to 
embark on The Leopard, which is anchored in the river.’ 

11 ‘ Set a price on Bouckmann’s head,’ cried another. 

“ ‘ Let us inform the Governor of J amaica of all this,’ said 
a third. 

“ ‘ Yes, so that he will have another chance for sending us 
the absurd help of five hundred guns,’ cried a member of the 
Provincial Assembly. ‘Governor, send an advice-boat to 
France, and let us wait ! ’ 

“ ‘ Wait, wait ! ’ shouted Monsieur de Eouvray. * And will 


52 


BUG-JARGAL. 


the blacks wait ? And will the fire which is already burning 
our city wait ? Monsieur de Touzard, attack the General As- 
sembly, take guns and go after the rebels with your soldiers 
and hunters. Governor, have camps pitched in the parishes 
of the east ; establish posts at the Trou and Vallieres ; I will 
take charge of the plains of Fort Dauphin; I will direct 
my forces there. My grandfather was field-marshal of the 
regiment of Normandie, and served under Marshal de Vauban ; 
I have studied Folard and Bezout, and have some experience 
in defending a country. Besides, the plains of Fort Dauphin 
are almost surrounded by the sea and the Spanish frontiers ; 
they are almost an island, and will be a defence in themselves ; 
Mole, which is almost an island, also offers similar advan- 
tages. Let us make use of all this, and act ! ’ 

“ The energetic and forcible words of the veteran silenced 
the discord and discussion. The general was right. The 
feeling that each had a personal interest in the matter brought 
all to Monsieur de Rouvray’s side ; and while the governor 
shook him gratefully by the hand, telling the brave general 
that he realized the value of his advice, although it had 
been given as orders, and the importance of his aid, all the 
colonists called for the prompt execution of the proposed 
measures. 

“ The two members of the rival Assemblies alone took no 
part in the general discussion. They were muttering in their 
seats the words, ( Encroachment of executive power , of hast y 
decision and responsibility .’ 

“ I seized this opportunity to obtain from Monsieur de 
Blanchelande the orders for which I was impatiently wait- 
ing ; and at last I left, rallied my men, and in spite of the 
fatigue of every one except myself, we set out immediately 
upon the road to l’Acul. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


53 


CHAPTER XVII. 

u Day was beginning to break. I was on the place of arms, 
awakening the soldiers asleep on their cloaks, the yellow and 
the red dragoons together, the fugitives of the plain, the 
beasts, and the luggage of every kind, which had been brought 
into the city by the planters from the surrounding country. I 
was trying to find my company in all this confusion, when sud- 
denly I saw a yellow dragoon, covered with dust and perspira- 
tion, running toward me at full speed. I went forward to meet 
him, and from his few excited words I learned to my conster- 
nation that my fears were realized ; that the revolt had reached 
the plains of l’Acul, and that the blacks were already attack- 
ing Fort Galifet, where the soldiers and the colonists were. 
I must admit that Fort Galifet was not much of a fort ; in 
San Domingo any earthwork is called a fort. 

“ There was not a moment to be lost. I seized horses for 
those of my soldiers whom I could find, and, led by the dra- 
goon, I reached my uncle’s estates about ten o’clock. 

“ I hardly glanced at the immense plantations, which were 
nothing but a sea of flame, billowing across the plain in great 
waves of' smoke. Now and then the wind blew down huge 
trunks of trees, bristling with fire. 

“A frightful crackling, mingled with shouts and falling 
buildings, seemed to answer the distant howls of the blacks, 
whom we heard, but whom we could not see. The loss of 
such wealth was nothing to me. I had but one thought, 
Marie’s safety. If she were secure, what mattered all the 
rest ? I knew that she was in the fort, and I prayed God to 
let me reach her in time. This hope alone sustained me in 
my agony, and gave me the courage and strength of a lion. 

“ At length a turn in the road brought the fort into sight. 


54 


BUG-JARGAL. 


The tricolored flag still floated from the roof, and a well-fed 
fire was just beginning to creep up over the walls. I gave a 
cry of delight. ‘ Forward ! spur the horses ! give them free 
rein ! ’ I cried to my comrades. And, increasing our speed, we 
crossed the fields toward the fort, below which we could see 
the home of my uncle still standing, but with the doors and 
windows shattered. It glowed crimson in the light of the 
flames, but had not yet caught fire ; for the wind was blowing 
from the sea, and the house was at a distance from the 
plantations. 

“A crowd of blacks, hidden in the house, all at once ap- 
peared at the windows, even upon the roof ; and torches, pikes, 
and axes shone in the midst of the shots they were firing 
upon the fort ; while more of their number climbed, fell back, 
and mounted again upon the ladders they had placed against 
the besieged walls. This sea of blacks, ebbing and flowing, as 
it were, against the gray walls, looked, at a distance, like a 
swarm of ants trying to clamber upon the back of a great 
turtle, and which were thrown off from time to time by a 
shake from the slow animal. At last we reached the first 
fortifications. Glancing at the flag which waved above it, I 
called on my soldiers in the name of their families, who, like 
mine, were behind the walls we were going to save. A gen- 
eral cry was my answer; and forming my squadron into 
columns, I made ready to give the signal, and charge upon 
the besieging forces. Just then a great shout rose from the 
enceinte of the fort, a cloud of smoke closed in the whole 
building, rolling up about the walls, whence came a noise 
like a roaring furnace. A fierce light burst out, and we saw 
something crimson rising above Fort Galifet. All was over ! 


B UG-JARGAL. 


55 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“ I will not describe my feelings at the horrible sight. 
The fort captured, its defenders, twenty families, massacred ; 
all this, I confess to my shame, took place in an instant. 
Marie was lost to me ! Lost a few hours after she had been 
given to me forever ! Lost by my own fault ; for had I not 
left her to obey my uncle’s orders, I might at least have 
defended her or died with her, which in a way would not 
have been losing her ! These thoughts made me mad. My 
despair was turned to remorse. 

“ But my companions, driven to fury, cried, ‘ Revenge ! ’ 
and we threw ourselves, with sword and pistol, into the midst 
of the conquering insurgents. Although their numbers were 
greater than ours, the blacks fled at our approach ; we could 
see them distinctly on the right, the left, before, behind us, 
cutting down the whites, and hurrying on to burn the fort. 
Our rage increased at their cowardly acts. 

“ Thadee, covered with wounds, appeared at one of the pos- 
terns of the fort. 

“ ‘ Captain/ said he, ‘your Pierrot is a sorcerer, an obi as 

these d negroes say, or a devil at least ; you arrived and 

all was saved, when suddenly he enters the fort, I know not 
how, and look ! As to your uncle, and his family, and ’ — 

“ ‘ Marie ! ’ I cried, ‘ where is Marie ? ’ 

“ At this moment a huge black came out from the burning 
wall, bearing in his arms a young woman who was screaming 
and throwing her arms about wildly. The woman was 
Marie ; the black was Pierrot. 

“ ' Traitor ! ' I cried. 

“ I pointed my pistol at him ; one of the rebels threw him- 
self in front of the ball, and fell to the ground, dead. Pierrot 


56 


BUG-JARGAL. 


turned, and seemed to be trying to speak to me ; then he was 
lost with his burden behind the stalks of burning sugar-cane. 
An instant, and a huge dog followed him, bearing in his teeth 
a cradle in which lay my uncle’s youngest child. I recog- 
nized the dog ; it was Rask. Carried away by my rage, I shot 
my second pistol at him, but missed fire. 

“ I ran after him like a madman ; but my night tramps, 
my having been without rest or food for so long, my fears for 
Marie, the sudden change from happiness to despair, — all 
these mental troubles, much more than the bodily fatigue, 
were too much for me ; and I had not taken many steps before 
I began to stagger, a mist rose before my eyes, and I fell 
fainting to the ground. 


B JJG-JABGAL. 


57 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“When I recovered consciousness, I was in the ruined 
home of my uncle, in Thadee’ s arms. This good fellow was 
looking anxiously at me. 

Victory!’ cried he, as soon as he saw life returning. 

‘ Victory ! The negroes have taken to flight, and the Captain 
has come to life again/ 

“ I interrupted his joyful cry by my one thought, ‘ Where 
is Marie ? ’ 

“ My mind was not yet entirely clear ; I remembered the 
fact that I was in trouble, but nothing more. Thadee’s eyes 
fell. Then my memory rushed back. I remembered my 
horrible wedding-night, and the huge negro carrying Marie 
away in his arms among the flames. The frightful light 
which had broken over the colony, showing the whites and the 
blacks who were their enemies, made me see in Pierrot, who 
had been so good, so generous, so devoted, he who three times 
owed his life to me, a rival, a monster of ingratitude. The 
fact of my wife’s having been carried away on our very 
wedding-night proved my suspicions, and I felt that the singer 
of the woods was no other than Marie’s wretched lover. 
What a change a few hours had made ! 

“ Thadee told me that he had followed Pierrot and his dog 
in vain ; that the negroes had withdrawn, although they could 
easily have overpowered my small forces ; and that it would 
not be possible to stop the burning of the family estates. 

«I asked if he knew what had become of my uncle. 
Thadee took my hand in silence, and leading me to an alcove, 
pulled back the curtains. 

“ My poor uncle lay there in a bed of blood, a dagger thrust 
deep into his heart. By the peaceful look on his face, he 


58 


BUG-JARGAL. 


must have been stabbed in sleep. The bed of the dwarf 
Habibrah, who always slept at the foot of my uncle’s, was cov- 
ered with blood ; and the lace coat of the poor fool lay upon 
the floor a few feet away, covered with the same red stains. 

“ I did not doubt for an instant but that the clown had been 
killed by his comrades, on account of his attachment to his 
master, and perhaps even while trying to save him. I bit- 
terly reproached myself for my wrong ideas concerning Habi- 
brah and Pierrot ; I wept not only for my uncle’s sudden 
death, but for his poor fool too. I gave orders that a search 
be made for his body ; but it could not be found, so I supposed 
that the negroes had thrown it into the flames. I ordered 
prayers to be said for the repose of Habibrah’s faithful soul at 
my father-in-law’s funeral. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


59 


CHAPTER XX. 

“Fort Galifet was in ruins. Our settlements were de- 
stroyed ; to linger longer there was useless and impossible. 
That very evening we returned to the Cape. 

“ Once there, an intense longing seized me. The effort to 
conquer my despair had been too great, and the reaction had 
come. I became delirious. All my hopes blasted, my love 
outraged, friendship betrayed, my future lost, and beneath all, 
this mad jealousy. My reason left me. Fire seemed to run 
through my veins ; my head throbbed ; rage was in my heart. 
I pictured Marie in another’s power, the power of a lover, a 
master, a slave, in short, Pierrot ! They told me afterwards 
that I sprang from my bed, and that six men were required to 
keep me from dashing out my brains against the wall. Oh ! 
why did I not die then ? 

“ The crisis passed. The physicians, Thadee’s nursing, and 
some strange hold that youth has upon life, conquered death, 
which would have been welcomed by me. I grew better at the 
end of ten days, and was not sorry. I was glad to live a while 
for the sake of revenge. 

“ Before I had even fully recovered, I went to Monsieur de 
Blanchelande to ask to have some duty assigned me. He 
wanted to give me a post to defend ; but I begged him to let 
me go as a volunteer in one of the moving companies, which 
occasionally were sent against the blacks, in order to clear the 
country. 

“The Cape had been speedily fortified. The revolt was 
making alarming progress. The negroes began to rebel at Port- 
au-Prince ; Biassou commanded those from du Limbe, Dondon 
and l’Acul ; Jean Frangois had himself proclaimed generalis- 
simo of the revolt of the plain of Maribarou; Bouckmann, 


60 


BUG-JARGAL. 


since known on account of his tragic death, guarded with his 
brigands the shores of the Limonade ; and the companies of 
the Morne-Rouge recognized a leader in a negro named Bug- 
J argal. 

“ The character of this leader, if accounts are to be believed, 
was a strange contrast to the fierceness of the others. Bouck- 
mann and Biassou invented a thousand means of death for 
the prisoners, but Bug-Jargal strove to furnish them means 
of escape from the island. The former bargained with the 
Spanish ships, which cruised about their coast, and sold them 
the booty of the unfortunate ones whom they drove to flight. 
Bug-Jargal sunk several of these corsairs. Bug-Jargal ordered 
Monsieur Colas de Maigne and eight other distinguished col- 
onists to be removed from the rack, where Bouckmann had 
them placed. A thousand other kind acts are told of him, 
but they are too many to repeat here. 

“ My hope of revenge did not seem near at hand. Pierrot 
was no longer mentioned. The rebels commanded by Biassou 
continued to trouble the Cape. Once they even dared to scale 
the mountain over the city, and it was all the soldiers could 
do to repulse them. The governor resolved to drive them 
into the interior of the island. The soldiers of l’Acul, Limbe, 
Ouanaminte, and Maribarou were added to the regiment at the 
Cape, and to the strong yellow and red companies. This con- 
stituted our active army. The militia from Dondon and the 
Quartier-Dauphin were re-enforced by a body of volunteers, 
under command of the merchant Poncpgnon. This formed 
the garrison of the city. 

“ The governor wished to get rid of Bug-Jargal, of whom he 
was afraid. He sent against him the soldiers from Ouanaminte 
and a battalion from the Cape. Two days later, the men 
returned, completely routed. The governor persisted in his 
efforts, and sent the same company again, with a re-enforce- 
ment of fifty yellow dragoons and four hundred soldiers from 
Maribarou. This second army received worse treatment than 
the first. Thadee was of the number, and was so angry at 


BUG-JARGAL. 


Cl 


the defeat, that he resolved to avenge himself on his own 
account on Bug-Jargal.” 

A tear moistened the eye of d’Auverney; he crossed his 
arms upon his breast, and for some moments was lost in deep 
contemplation. Then he continued : — 


62 


BUG-JABGAL. 


CHAPTER XXL 

“News came to us that Bug-Jargal had left Morne-Rouge, 
and was advancing by way of the mountains to join Biassou. 
The governor sprang up joyfully: — 

“‘We have them, then ! ? said he, clapping his hands. The 
following day the army of the colonists was moved one league 
in front of the Cape. The insurgents, at our approach, hastily 
retreated from Port- Margot and Fort Galifet, where they had 
established a post, protected by great batteries which had been 
raised at the sides ; they had all fled to the mountains. The 
governor was delighted. We continued our march. Each of 
us, as we passed across the arid and desolate plains, strove to 
recognize the spot of his former habitation, his wealth; but 
often he could find no trace of them. 

“ Sometimes our march was hindered by the burning forests 
and savannas, which had caught fire from the fields. In the 
climate where the soil is moist, where vegetation flourishes, 
the burning of a forest is accompanied by strange phenomena. 
The burning and crackling sounds in the distance are like the 
overflowing of a cataract. The falling trees, the snapping 
of the branches, the seething of the roots underground, the 
trembling shrubs, the whistling of the flames through the air, 
— all increase in force as the fire continues its progress. Some- 
times one sees a clump of green trees still unharmed, while in 
their midst rages the flaming storm. Suddenly a tongue of fire 
appears at one end of the green clump, a serpent of bluish flame 
rapidly licks along the trunks, and in an instant their heads 
are lost beneath a moving shower of gold; all burn at once. 
Then a canopy of smoke is broken by the wind, and winds 
about the flames. It rolls and unrolls, rises, falls, scatters, and 
grows dense again until it is black. Then a fringe of fire 


BUG-JARGAL. 


63 


runs along its edge, a great noise is heard, the fringe disap- 
pears behind a cloud of smoke, and from the blackness drops a 
shower of crimson sparks, that glow for a long time upon the 
desolate earth. 


64 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ The evening of the third day we entered the narrow 
passes of the Grande-River. The blacks were supposed to be 
twenty leagues over the mountain. 

“ We pitched our camp on a slope, which they must have 
used for the same purpose, it looked so trodden down. The 
position was not a good one, but we were at least quiet there. 
Great rocks rose on all sides, covered with dense forests. The 
ruggedness of the place had given to it the name of Dompte- 
Mulatre. The Grande-River ran at the back of the camp; 
hemmed in by both shores, it was at this point both narrow 
and deep. The banks sloped down abruptly, and were cov- 
ered with bushes so thick that one could not see through them. 
Often even the water was invisible on account of the bind- 
weeds clinging to the branches of the flowering red maples, 
which grew among the bushes, and flung their arms from one 
bank to the other, intertwining in a thousand various ways, 
till they s'pread over the river like great green tents. As one 
looked down upon them from the neighboring rocks, they 
seemed like meadows still wet with dew. A faint ripple, or 
an occasional wild teal alighting on the top of this blossoming 
carpet, alone marks the course of the river. 

“ Before long the gold of the sun’s rays had disappeared 
from the sharp point of the cliffs of the Doudon ; by degrees 
twilight settled over the camp, and the silence was broken 
only by the cry of the crane and the measured tread of the 
sentinel. 

“ All at once, over our heads were heard the terrible songs 
of ‘Oua-Nasse,’ and of the ‘ Camp du Grand Pre the palms, 
acomas, and cedar-trees on the rocks above us were on fire, and 
in the lurid light of the flames we saw bands of negroes and 


BUG-JARGAL. 


65 


mulattoes, whose bronze skins gleamed red in the fire. They 
were the troops of Biassou. 

“ The danger was imminent. The commanders awoke with 
a start, and rushed to collect the soldiers; the drum beat the 
call ; the trumpet gave the alarm ; our lines were hastily 
formed; and the rebels, instead of taking advantage of our 
disorder, watched us without moving, singing, ‘ Oua-Nasse .’ 

“ One gigantic black alone appeared on the highest of the 
second line of crags which rose above the Grande-River ; 
a flame-colored plume waved on his head ; an axe was in his 
right hand, a red flag in his left. It was Pierrpt ! If I had 
had a carbine my rage would perhaps have driven me to a 
cowardly deed. The black repeated the refrain of 1 Oua- 
Nasse] laid his flag upon the cliff, hurled his axe into our 
ranks, and sank into the depths of the river. I felt a thrill 
of regret, for I thought that he would not die by my hand. 
Then the blacks began to roll huge rocks upon us ; a shower 
of balls and arrows fell on the cliff. Our soldiers were furi- 
ous at being unable to reach their assailants, and fell, hope- 
lessly, crushed by the rocks, riddled with shot, or pierced with 
arrows. 

“ Horrible disorder prevailed. How and again a fearful 
noise seemed to rise from the Grande-River. It was a 
strange sight. The yellow dragoons, terribly hurt by the 
rocks which the rebels were pushing from the mountains, 
conceived the idea of fleeing, escaping beneath the thin 
ceiling of bind-weeds which covered the river. Thadee was 
the first to think of this ingenious plan. ” 

At this point the story-teller was unexpectedly interrupted. 


66 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

More than a quarter of an hour* before this Sergeant 
Thadee, his right arm in a sling, had glided into a corner, 
unnoticed by any one, and by his gestures alone had been 
taking part in his master’s story. At this point, thinking 
it would be disrespectful to pass by such direct praise, with- 
out a word of thanks to d’Auverney, he began to stammer 
in some confusion, — 

“ You are very good, Captain.” 

A burst of laughter followed. D’Auverney turned. 

“ What ! ” said he severely, “ you here, Thadee ! How is 
your arm ? ” 

At the pronoun “you,” so seldom used by his master, the 
features of the old soldier turned to a ruddy glow; he 
trembled, and turned aside his head as though to stop the 
tears which sprang to his eyes. 

“ I never thought,” said he, in a low voice, “ I never would 
have believed that my captain would need to use the pronoun 
you to his old sergeant.” 

The captain rose quickly. 

“ Forgive me, my old friend, forgive me. I did not know 
what I was saying ; come, Thad, dost thou forgive me ?” 

Tears sprang to the eyes of the sergeant in spite of himself. 

“ There ! this is the third time,” he murmured, “ but these 
are tears of joy.” 

Peace was restored. A short pause followed. 

“ But tell me, Thad,” said the captain gently, “ why didst 
thou leave the hospital ? ” 

“ Because, by your leave, I came to ask you, Captain, if you 
wanted the saddle-cloth with the gold lace used to-morrow on 
your war-horse ? ” 


BUG-JARGAL. 


67 


Henry began to laugh. 

“ You would better, Thadee, have asked the surgeon-major 
if you were to put two ounces of lint on your wounded arm.” 

“ Or,” said Paschal, st if you might drink a little wine to 
refresh you; meantime, here is some brandy. It cannot 
harm you. Take it, my brave sergeant.” 

Thadee advanced, bowed respectfully, begged pardon for 
taking the glass with his left hand, and drank to the health 
of the company. His spirits returned. 

“ You were there, Captain, when — well, yes, it was I who 
proposed going under the bind-weeds to prevent the Chris- 
tians from being killed by the rocks. Our officer did not 
know how to swim, and feared he would drown, which was a 
natural feeling. Just then, by your leave, gentlemen, a huge 
rock fell past us into the river, but it did not sink on account 
of the weeds. ‘ It is much better/ said he then, ‘ to die like 
Pharaoh of Egypt than like Saint Etienne. We are not 
saints, and Pharaoh was a soldier like us.’ My officer, who 
was a student, you see, was willing to take my advice, pro- 
vided that I would try the experiment first ; so I did. I 
went down the embankment; and grasping hold of the branch 
of a tree, I swung myself down, — when suddenly I felt my 
leg seized ; I kicked, I cried, several sword-thrusts were given 
me ; and then I saw all the dragoons, the devils, who had 
rushed down pell-mell beneath the bind-weeds. They were 
the blacks of the Morne-Rouge, who had been hiding there, 
unknown to us, probably in order to fall upon us like a heavy 
bag a moment after. That would not have been a good mo- 
ment for fishing ! They fought, they swore, they yelled. 
Being naked, they could act more quickly than we ; but our 
shots told better than theirs. We swam with one arm, and 
fought with the other, as always happens in such cases. 
Those who could not swim, Captain, hung by one hand to the 
bind-weeds, and the blacks pulled them down by their feet. In 
the midst of the fray I saw a huge negro who was defending 
himself like Beelzebub against eight or ten of our men ; I 


68 


BUG-JARGAL. 


swam across to him, and recognized Pierrot, otherwise Bug — 
But that was not discovered until later, was it, Captain ? I 
recognized Pierrot. Since the fort had been taken, we had 
been enemies. I seized him by the throat, just as he was 
going to despatch me by a thrust of his dagger ; but when he 
saw me, instead of killing me, he surrendered ; that was very 
unfortunate, Captain, for had he not done so — But that 
will come by and by. As soon as the negroes saw that he 
was caught, they rushed at us in order to save him ; the 
soldiers jumped into the water to help us ; but Pierrot, no 
doubt seeing that all the negroes would be killed, uttered a 
few words that were perfect Greek to me, and they all left 
him. They plunged into the water, and disappeared in the 
twinkling of an eye. The battle under water would not have 
been bad, and would have been somewhat amusing too, if I 
had not lost a finger, and wet ten cartridges, and if — poor 
man ! — but that was to be, Captain .” 

And the sergeant respectfully touched his foraging-cap 
with his left hand, and then raised it to the sky as though 
inspired. 

D’Auverney seemed greatly agitated. 

“ Yes,” said he ; “ yes, thou art right, my old Thadee, that 
night was fatal.” 

He would have fallen into one of his usual deep reveries, 
had not the others urged him to continue his story. So after 
a pause he resumed. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


69 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“ While the scene which Thaclee has just described [Thadee, 
beaming, took his stand behind his captain], while this scene 
was taking place behind the- mountain, I managed, with some 
of my men, to climb from bush to bush up to a peak called 
the Peak of the Paon , from the iridescent tints which the 
mica in the soil caused when the sun Shone on it. This peak 
was on a level with the position held by the blacks. The way 
once opened, the summit was seen to be covered with sol- 
diers ; we began a brisk fusillade. The negroes were not as 
well armed as we, and could not hold out before so strong an 
attack ; they began to be discouraged ; we redoubled our 
efforts, and very soon the surrounding rocks were vacated by 
the rebels, who were careful, however, first to roll the bodies 
of their dead upon our ranks, still ranged in line-of-battle on 
the mountain. Then we cut down, and bound together with 
palm-leaves and cord, the trunks of several enormous wild 
cotton-trees, out of which the early inhabitants of the island 
used to make boats of a hundred oars each. By aid of this 
improvised bridge we were able to cross to the abandoned 
peaks. 

“Thus one company held an advantageous position. The 
fact shook the courage of the insurgents. We sustained fire. 
Suddenly from Biassou’s army came piteous cries, and shouts 
of Bug-Jargal. Great consternation prevailed. Several blacks 
appeared on the rock where the red flag was waving ; they 
fell on their knees, raised the standard, and threw themselves 
with it into the waters of the Grande-River. That seemed to 
signify that their chief was either dead or captured. 

“ Our boldness had reached such a point, that I resolved to 
chase with side-arms the rebels from the rocks which they 


70 


BUG-JARGAL. 


were still occupying. I ordered a bridge of trees to be 
thrown across from our peak to the next, and I was the first 
to rush among the negroes. r My men were just about to fol- 
low, when one of the rebels raised his axe, and cut the bridge 
into splinters. The pieces fell into the abyss, striking against 
the rocks with a frightful crash. 

“ I turned ; and just then I felt myself seized by six or 
seven blacks, who unarmed me. I fought like a lion j but 
they bound me with strips of bark, without paying any atten- 
tion to the balls which my men were raining upon them. 

“ My despair was soothed only when I heard victorious 
shouts about me an instant after ; then I saw the blacks and 
the mulattoes climbing pell-mell up the steepest sides of 
the crags, and crying out in distress. My captors followed 
their example ; the strongest one raised me on his shoulders, 
and bore me to the forest, springing from rock to rock with the 
agility of a deer. Before long the light of the fire ceased to 
guide him ; there were only the feeble rays from the moon ; 
and he began to walk more slowly. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


71 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ After we had pushed through thickets and leaped over 
torrents, we reached a high valley, singularly wild in appear- 
ance. I had no idea where we were. 

“ The valley lay in the very heart of the mountains, in 
what they call at San Domingo the double mountains. It 
was a great green savanna, hemmed in by walls of bare rock, 
and dotted with clumps of pine, cayais, and palm-trees. The 
almost continual cold which pervades this island, although it 
seldom reaches freezing-point, was augmented by the fresh 
night air. Day was beginning to bring back the white light 
to the high cliffs about us ; but the valley, which was still 
plunged in darkness, was lighted only by the many fires of the 
negroes ; their rallying-point was there. The scattered num- 
bers of their army were collecting in disorder. Frightened 
squads of blacks and mulattoes arrived every moment, crying 
out in distress or howling with rage. Fresh fires shone out 
like tiger’s eyes in the darkness, showing that every instant 
the numbers were increasing. 

“ The negro whose prisoner I was, set me down at the foot 
of an oak, from whence I looked carelessly about upon the 
strange spectacle. The black tied me firmly with double 
knots about my waist to the trunk of the tree against which I 
was leaning, so that I could not move. He placed his red 
linen cap on my head, probably to indicate that I was his 
property; and after assuring himself that I could neither 
escape nor be carried away by any one, he went off a little 
distance. Then I spoke, and asked him in Creole patois if he 
belonged to the army of Dondon or Morne-Rouge. He looked 
at me in a proud way, and replied, “ Morne-Rouge ! ” An 
idea came into my mind. I had heard of the generosity of 


72 


BUG-JARGAL. 


the leader of this army, Bug-Jargal ; and although I was will- 
ing to die and thus end all my misery, I could not think of 
the tortures which might be in store for me from Biassou 
without horror. I asked nothing except to die without under- 
going these tortures. 

“ Perhaps I was weak, but I think that at such a moment 
nature always rebels. I then thought that, if I could escape 
Biassou, I might obtain from Bug-Jargal a painless death, 
that of a soldier. I asked this negro of Morne-Bouge to take 
me to his chief, Bug-Jargal. He trembled. “ Bug-Jargal ! ” 
he exclaimed, striking his forehead in despair ; then suddenly 
growing angry, he shook his fist, — 

“ Biassou ! Biassou ! ” After uttering this ominous name, 
he left me. 

“ The anger and the grief of the negro recalled to my mind 
the struggle from which we had concluded that the leader of 
the company of Morfie-Bouge was dead or taken captive. I 
doubted this no longer, and resigned myself to Biassou’s ven- 
geance, with which the black seemed to threaten me. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


73 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ Darkness still hung over the valley, where the number of 
blacks and their fires were constantly increasing. Several 
negro women had just lighted a fire near me. From their 
appearance I saw that they were griotes. Their wrists and 
ankles were covered with shining bracelets of blue, red, and 
purple glass ; gold hoops hung from their ears ; every finger 
and toe was laden with rings, on their breast were amulets, 
charms hung from their necks ; and their only clothing was an 
apron of vari-colored feathers. They were chanting songs, 
and they looked at me in a vague, wild way. Perhaps you 
do not know that among the blacks, in the various countries 
of Africa, there are those who are endowed with great talent 
for poetry and music, which they carry almost to madness. 
These negroes wander about from kingdom to kingdom, and 
are in barbarous countries what the ancient rhapsodists were, 
the English minstrels of the Middle Ages, the minnesingers of 
Germany, and the troubadours of France. They are called 
griots. Their wives, the griotes , are, like them, possessed with 
a mad spirit ; and they accompany the barbaric songs of their 
husbands with indecent dances. They are a grotesque parody 
upon the bayaderes of Hindustan, and the almees of Egypt. 
Several of these women now seated* themselves, with their 
limbs crossed in the African fashion, not far from me, about 
a great fire of dried branches. The bright flames threw a lurid 
light upon their hideous faces as I watched them. They 
formed a circle, joined hands, and the oldest, who wore a 
heron plume in her hair, began to shout, 1 Ouanga ! ’ I 
understood that they were about to perform one of the sor- 
ceries called by that name. They all repeated the word 
< Ouanga ! ’ After a moment’s silence, the oldest pulled out 


74 


BUG-JARGAL. 


a Iock of her hair, and threw it into the flames, uttering tnese 
words, ‘ Male o guiab ! 7 which in negro language signifies 
‘I will go to the devil. ’ The other griotes followed the exam- 
ple of their leader, threw a lock of their hair into the fire, 
and cried solemnly, ‘ Male o guiab ! 7 

“ This strange invocation, and the burlesque grimaces with 
which it was accompanied, threw me into that state of invol- 
untary laughter which often seizes the most serious-minded 
or the most sorrowful person, and which is called a fool’s 
laugh. I strove in vain to check it ; it burst out, and coming 
as it did from my wretched heart, it had a strange and start- 
ling effect. 

“ All the negresses, who had been working out their charms, 
rose, as though awakened from sleep. They had been uncon- 
scious of my presence. Now they rushed wildly at me, 
shouting, 1 Blanco ! Blanco ! 7 I have never seen a more 
varied assortment of horrible faces than were theirs in their 
anger, with their shining teeth and their white bloodshot 
eyes. 

“ They were ready to tear me to pieces. The old one with 
the heron plume waved her hand, and cried several times, 

‘ Zote corde ! Zote corde ! 7 (All together! All together!) 
The mad women then suddenly stopped, and to my sur- 
prise removed their feather aprons, threw them upon the 
ground, and began around me that indecent dance which the 
blacks call ‘ la chica 7 It expresses pleasure and gayety by 
its grotesque figures and quick movements, but in the present 
case, for various reasons, it assumed a sinister character. The 
griotes shot glances of hatred at me in the midst of their 
mad evolutions, .the joyous air of the chica assumed an omi- 
nous tone, the venerable leader of the Sanhedrim brought out 
sharp and prolonged groans from her balafo , a sort of spinet, 
which sounds like a small organ, and which consists of 
twenty or more wooden pipes which gradually diminish in 
length and thickness. All this, and especially the laugh of 
each naked sorceress at certain figures in the dance, as she 


BUG-JARGAL. 


75 


came and almost laid her face against mine, showed me too 
well what frightful punishment awaited the bianco who had 
thus desecrated their ouanga. I remembered the custom of 
these savage peoples, who dance around the prisoners before 
massacring them ; and I patiently suffered these women to 
carry on the ballet of the tragedy, the denouement of which 
was to come with my blood. However, 1 could not restrain a 
groan, when, to the strains of the balafo, each griote put 
into the flames the point of a sword, or the blade of an axe, 
the end of a long needle, a pair of tongs, or the teeth of a 
saw. 

“ The end of the dance was approaching ; the instruments 
of torture were red-hot. At a signal from the leader, the 
negresses went in single file, and removed some dread instru- 
ment from the fire. 

“ Those who had no instrument seized firebrands. Then I 
saw clearly Avhat was in store for me, that each dancer was 
to be an executioner. At another signal from their coryphee , 
they began the final figure, groaning fearfully. I closed my 
eyes, so that I might no longer see the sport of these female 
devils, who, breathless with fury and fatigue, beat their heads 
with their flaming weapons, which gave out sharp clashings 
and showers of sparks. I grew frigid as I waited for the 
moment when I was to feel my flesh tortured, my bones 
crackle, my nerves contorting beneath the red-hot stabs of 
the tongs and saws, and a shiver ran through me from head 
to foot. The moment was a terrible one. 

“ Fortunately it did not last long. The griotes were reach- 
ing the end of the chica , when suddenly I heard in the dis- 
tance the voice of the negro who had captured me. He ran 
to me, shouting, 1 Que haceis, mujeres de demonio? Que 
haceis alii ? Dexais mi prisoniero ! 9 (‘ What are you doing, 
you women-devils ? what are you doing ? Leave my pris- 
oner alone ! ’ ) I opened my eyes. Already it was daylight. 
The negro spoke fast, and with gestures of rage. The griotes 
stopped ; but they seemed less moved by his gestures than 


76 


BUG-JARGAL. 


by the presence of a strange-looking person by whom the 
black was accompanied. 

“This was a short, stout man, almost a dwarf, whose face 
was hidden by a white veil, which had in it three holes for 
the mouth and eyes, after the fashion of penitents. The veil 
fell over his neck and shoulders, leaving his shaggy breast 
visible, the color of which seemed to me to be that of a 
grijfe , and on which was suspended, from a gold chain, a mon- 
strance in old silver. He wore a huge dagger, the handle in 
the shape of a cross, suspended from a scarlet belt, which held 
up a green, yellow, and black striped skirt, edged with fringe' 
which fell to his huge and shapeless feet. His arms were 
bare like his breast, and he carried a white baton ; a chaplet 
of beads of adrezarack hung beside the dagger. On his head 
he wore a pointed cap, covered with bells, which I was not 
surprised to recognize as the gorra of Habibrah. Among the 
hieroglyphs with which this species of mitre was covered, I 
saw spots of blood. Probably it was the blood of the faith- 
ful clown. These traces of the murder seemed to me a 
further proof of his death, and roused in my heart fresh 
regret. 

“When the griotes saw the heir of Habibrah’s cap, they 
cried in chorus, 1 The obi ! ’ and fell on their knees. I guessed 
that this was the sorcerer of Biassou’s army. ‘ Basta ! 
Basta ! ’ said he, approaching, and in a hollow voice, ‘ dexais 
el prisoniero de Biassu ! * ( 1 Enough ! enough ! leave Biassou’s 
prisoner alone ! ’ ) All the women rose hurriedly, threw aside 
their instruments of torture, put on their feather aprons, and 
at a sign from the obi scattered like a swarm of locusts. 

“ The obi stared at me ; then he seemed to tremble. He 
stepped back, and waved his baton at the vanishing griotes as 
though he would recall them. But, after muttering the word 
‘ vialdicho ’ (‘ accursed ! ’ ) between his teeth, he whispered a 
few words to the negro, and went slowly away, his arms 
crossed upon his breast in an attitude of deep meditation. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


77 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

“ My guardian then told me that Biassou had asked to see 
me, and that I must be ready for an interview with this chief 
in one hour. 

“ It was, no doubt, the one hour left me in which to live. 
Meanwhile I looked at the rebel camp, that the daylight now 
permitted me to see in all its strange detail. At any other 
time I must have laughed at the foolish vanity of the blacks, 
who were almost all covered with military and priestly orna- 
ments, the booty of their victims. The greater part of these 
were bloody rags. It was not an unusual thing to see a gor- 
get around a neck, or an epaulet on a chasuble. No doubt, 
in order to become rested from the labors to which they had 
been accustomed all their lives, the negroes were enjoying an 
idleness unknown to our soldiers, even when in camp. Some 
were asleep in the sunshine, their heads near a glowing fire ; 
others, with glances now dull, now angry, were singing a 
slow, monotonous air, sitting in groups at the door of their 
ajoupas, a sort of hut thatched with leaves from the banana 
and palm trees, and the conical shape of which resembles our 
tents. Their black or yellow wives, with the aid of the little 
negroes, were preparing their food. I watched them turning 
on their forks the Indian potatoes, bananas, sweet potatoes, 
pease, cocoa, maize, the southern cabbage called tayo , and 
other native fruits which were cooking along side of bits of 
pork, turtle, and dog, in the huge copper kettles which they 
had stolen from the huts of the planters. In the distance, 
griots and griotes were singing around huge fires ; and the 
wind brought me snatches of their barbaric chants, mingled 
with the sound of the guitars and bctlafos. Some sentinels, 


78 


BUG-JARGAL . 


on the summit of the adjacent rocks, kept watch over the 
camp of General Biassou, the sole intrenchment of which, in 
case of attack, lay in the circular cordon of cabrouets, filled 
with booty and ammunition. These black sentinels stood on 
the sharp granite cliffs which covered the mountains. Occa- 
sionally they would turn toward one another, like weather- 
cocks on Gothic spires, and would shout out as loud as they 
could the cry which told that the camp was safe, ‘ Nada ! 
Nada ! ’ ( 1 Nothing ! Nothing ! ) 

“ From time to time groups of curious negroes collected 
about me. They all looked at me in an unfriendly manner. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


79 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“At last a company of colored soldiers, stoutly armed, 
arrived. The black to whom I seemed to belong untied me 
from the tree, and gave me to the chief of the squad, receiv- 
ing in exchange a large bag, which he immediately opened. 
It was full of piastres. The negro knelt upon the ground, 
and began to count them greedily, while the soldiers led me 
away. I looked with curiosity upon their uniform. They 
wore a coat of thick brown, red, and yellow cloth, cut in the 
Spanish fashion. A sort of Castilian montera , trimmed with 
a large red cockade (red is the color of the Spanish cockade), 
hid their woolly hair. Instead of a cartridge-box, they car- 
ried a sort of game-bag at their side. Their arms were a 
heavy gun, a sword, and a dagger. I have since learned that 
this uniform was that of Biassou’s private guard. 

“ After picking our way among the irregular ranks of the 
ajoupas, which filled the camp, we came at last to the en- 
trance of a cave, which nature had hollowed out at the foot 
of an immense wall of rock, the savanna of which was closed. 
A great curtain of stuff from Thibet, called katchmir , and 
which is noted not so much for its bright color as for its 
soft folds and varied designs, hung in front of the entrance. 
The cave was surrounded by double lines of soldiers, equipped 
like those who had escorted me. The chief of the squad ex- 
changed the password with the two sentinels at the entrance, 
raised the katchmir curtain, which fell behind us, and we 
were within the cave. 

“ A brass lamp with five sockets was suspended by chains 
from the ceiling, and threw a vacillating light upon the damp 
walls of this windowless cavern. Between two lines of mu- 
latto soldiers, I saw a colored man, sitting on an enormous 


80 


BTJG-JABGAL. 


mahogany stump, which was partly covered by a rug of parrot 
feathers. The man belonged to the tribe of the sacatras, 
which is separated from the negroes by an almost impercep- 
tible shade. His costume was ridiculous. A magnificent belt 
of spun silk, from which hung a cross of Saint Louis, held 
up his coarse blue linen trousers ; a vest of white dimity, so 
short that it did not meet the belt, completed his costume. 
He wore gray boots, a round cap with a scarlet cockade, and 
epaulets, one of which was gold with the two silver stars of 
the field-marshal, the other was of yellow linen. Two brass 
stars, which looked like the rowels of spurs, had been at- 
tached to the latter to make it worthy of being next to its 
brilliant companion. These epaulets were held in place by 
gauze bands, and hung down on either side of the chief’s 
breast. On the feather rug in front of him were a sword 
and some pistols heavily embossed. 

“ Behind him, silent and motionless, stood two children in 
slaves’ garb, each holding a large fan of peacock feathers. 
These two slave boys were white. Two squares of crimson 
velvet, which looked as though they had once belonged to 
some prie-dieu, had been placed on either side of the ma- 
hogany trunk. The one on the right was occupied by the obi 
who had saved me from the fury of the griotes. He was sit- 
ting with his limbs crossed, holding his baton, as motionless 
as a porcelain idol in a Chinese pagoda. Only from behind 
the holes in his veil I saw two shining eyes, fixed constantly 
upon me. 

“ On either side of the chief were piles of flags, banners, and 
field-colors of every description, among which I recognized 
the white flag with the fleur-de-lis, the tricolored flag, and 
the flag of Spain. The others were fancy ensigns. There 
was a huge black standard among them. At the rear of the 
room, over the chief’s head, another object attracted my at- 
tention. It was the portrait of the mulatto Oge, who had 
been accused of rebellion, and had been killed on the rack the 
previous year, with his lieutenant, Jean-Baptiste Chavanne, 


BUG-JABGAL. 


81 


and twenty other blacks or half-breeds. In this portrait, 
Oge, son of a butcher of the Cape, was represented, as he had 
been in the habit of having himself painted, in the uniform 
of a lieutenant-colonel, with the cross of Saint Louis, and the 
order of the Lion, which he had bought in Europe from the 
Prince of Limbourg. 

“ The chief sacatra , to whom I was introduced, was of me- 
dium height. His ignoble face showed a mixture of slyness 
and cruelty. He bade me approach, and watched me for 
some time in silence ; then he began to chuckle like a hyena. 

“ ‘ I am Biassou,’ said he. 

“ I had expected the name ; but I could not hear it thus 
spoken, with such a fiendish laugh, without an inward quiver. 
But my face remained calm and proud. I said nothing. 

“ ‘ Well ! ’ he continued in bad French, ‘ have you just been 
on the rack, that you cannot bend your back in the presence 
of Jean Biassou, the generalissimo of the conquering coun- 
tries, and marshal of the armies of su majestad catolica ?’ 
(The policy of the chief rebel leaders was to pretend that 
they did equally as much for the King of France, the Revo- 
lution, and Spain.) 

“ I crossed my arms upon my breast, and watched him 
fixedly. He began to chuckle again. This was a constant 
habit of his. 

“ ( Oh ! oh ! me pareces hombre de buen corozon ’ (‘ You seem 
a man of courage ’). 1 Well, listen to what I have to tell you. 

Are you Creole ? ’ 

“ ‘ No,’ I replied, 1 1 am French.’ 

“ My bold manner made him frown. 

“ He continued to chuckle, — 

“ ‘ So much the better. I see by your uniform that you are 
an officer. How old are you ? ’ 

Twenty.’ 

“ ‘ When was your birthday ? ’ 

“ At this question, which awakened many sad memories, I 
stood for a moment lost in thought. 


82 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ He repeated the question with asperity. I replied, — 

“ ‘ The day on which your comrade, Leogri, was killed.’ 

“ Anger contracted his features ; he gave a prolonged 
chuckle, but finally restrained himself, and said, — 

“ ‘ It is twenty-three days since Leogri died ; Frenchman, 
you shall tell him this evening, from me, that you have lived 
twenty-four days longer than he. I wish to leave you an- 
other day in the world, in order that you may tell him what 
the freedom of his brothers is, as you have seen it in the 
headquarters of Jean Biassou, field-marshal, and what this 
generalissimo’s authority is over the people of the king.’ 

“It was under this name that Jean-Fran^ois, who had 
styled himself Grand- Admiral of France, and his comrade, 
Biassou, designated their companies of negroes and revolt- 
ing mulattoes. 

“He ordered me to be seated between two guards, in a 
corner of the cave, and signed to some negroes who were 
wrapped in the cloak of an aide-de-camp. 

“ ‘ Let the drum-call be sounded, that all the army may 
assemble about our headquarters, in order that we may review 
it. And you, chaplain,’ said he, turning to the obi , ‘ put on 
your priestly robes, and celebrate for us and our soldiers the 
holy mass.’ 

“The obi rose, bowed reverently before Biassou, and whis- 
pered a few words in his ear ; but the chief interrupted him in 
a loud voice : — 

“ ‘ You have no altar, you say, Senor cura ? Is that sur- 
prising among the mountains ? But what difference does it 
make? When has the bon Giu (Creole, for ‘the good Lord’) 
need of magnificent temples, of an altar covered with gold 
and lace ? Gideon and Joshua worshipped him before stones ; 
do as they did, bon per (Creole, for ‘ good father’); the bon Giu 
is satisfied if the hearts are warm. You have no altar ! 
Well, can you not improvise one from this great case of sugar, 
which was stolen the day before yesterday by the people of 
the king from the settlement of Dubuisson ? ’ 


BUG-JABGAL. 


88 


“ Biassou’ s suggestion was promptly taken. In an instant 
the interior of the cave was in readiness for this parody on 
the divine mystery. A tabernacle was brought, and a holy 
vessel which had been stolen from the parish church of 
l’Acul, from the same church where my union with Marie had 
received God’s blessing, and which had been followed so soon 
after by misery. 

“The sugar case was arranged as an altar, and a white cloth 
was laid over it for an altar-cloth. However, this fact did 
not hinder us from seeing on the sides of the altar, * Dubuis- 
son and Co ., Nantes ! 9 

“ The sacred vessels were placed on the altar ; and the obi , 
finding he had no cross, took his dagger, the horizontal guard 
of which was of this shape, and stood it in front of the taber- 
nacle, between the chalice and the monstrance. Then, without 
removing his sorcerer’s cap, he hastily threw on the gown 
which had been stolen from the priest of l’Acul, opened the 
prayer-book, from which had been read the service for my 
fatal marriage, and turning to Biassou, whose throne was not 
far from the altar, he made a profound bow, and announced 
that he was ready to begin. 

“ Immediately, at a sign from the chief, the curtains before 
the entrance were raised, and I saw the entire army of blacks 
before the cavern. Biassou removed his round cap, and knelt 
before the altar. 

“ 1 On your knees ! ’ cried he in a loud voice. 

“ 1 On your knees ! ’ repeated the chiefs of every battal- 
ion. A sound of tambourines was heard. The entire army 
fell upon its knees. I alone remained sitting, rebelling at 
the horrible profanation which was about to take place before 
my very eyes ; but the two strong mulattoes who guarded 
me pulled the seat from under me, pushed me forward 
roughly, and I fell on my knees like the others, forced to ren- 
der a pretended respect for this pretended religion. 

“The obi officiated gravely. Biassou’s two little white 
pages performed the duties of deacon and assistant. 


84 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ The army of rebels, still on their knees, took part in the 
service with the deepest reverence, following the example of 
their generalissimo. At the moment of the exaltation, the obi, 
raising in his hands the Consecrated Host, turned toward the 
army, crying in Creole jargon : ‘ Zote cone bon Giu; ce li mo fe 
zote voer. Blan toaye li, touye blan yo toute ! ’ (‘ You know 
the good God ; it is he that has made you see. The whites 
killed him ; kill now the whites.’) 

After having partaken of the Holy Communion, Toussaint- 
l’Ouverture, in later years, was in the habit of using the same 
words. At these words, uttered in a loud voice, which I 
seemed to have heard somewhere, sometime, all the crowd 
gave a great shout ; they rattled their arms ; and it needed 
nothing less than Biassou’s interference to prevent these 
dread sounds from tolling my last hour. I saw to what an 
excess of fierceness and cruelty men could be carried, to 
whom a dagger was a cross, and on whose minds every im- 
pression acted so promptly and so deeply. 


BUG-JA11GAL . 


85 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“The ceremony over, the obi turned to Biassou with a 
respectful bow. Then the chief rose, and addressed me in 
French : — 

“‘We are accused of having no religion. You see that 
this is a calumny. We are good Catholics.’ 

“ I could not tell whether he spoke ironically or sincerely. 
A moment after, he ordered a glass jar brought to him full of 
black maize. Into this he threw some white maize ; then, 
raising the jar above his head, so that the whole army could 
see it, he exclaimed : — 

“ ‘ Brothers, you are the black maize, your enemies, the 
whites, are the white maize.’ He set down the jar; and 
when almost all the white maize had disappeared beneath the 
black, he cried, with an air of inspiration and triumph: 
< Guette blan si la la ! ’ (‘ You see the position the whites 
hold ! ’ ) The parable was taken up, and echoed along every 
cliff. Biassou continued, mingling his poor French with 
Creole and Spanish phrases : — 

“ ‘ El tiempo de la mansuetard es pasado The time for 
weakness is passed’). We have been long enough like gentle 
sheep, to the wool of which the whites compare our hair ; let 
us now be as fierce as the panthers and the jaguars from the 
country whence we came. Force alone can acquire right ; all 
comes to the one who is brave and without pity. Saint Loup 
has two fetes in the Gregorian calendar, the Pascal Lamb has 
but one ! Is it not so, chaplain ? ’ 

“ The obi nodded his head affirmatively. 

“ ‘ They have come,’ continued Biassou, 1 they have come, 
enemies to the regeneration of humanity, these whites, these 
colonists, these planters, these traders, verdaderos demonios , 


86 


BUG-JARGAL. 


from the mouth of Alecto ! Son venidos con insolencia ( ‘ they 
come insolently ’ ) ; they are covered, these proud people, with 
arms, with plumes, and with clothes, magnificent to look 
upon, and they despise us because we are black and naked. 
They think, in their pride, that they can scatter us as easily 
as this fan of peacock feathers scatters the swarms of flies 
and mosquitoes ! ’ 

“ He seized from the hands of a white slave one of the 
fans which he had carried behind him, and waved it over his 
head excitedly. Then he resumed : — 

u 1 But, oh, my brothers ! our army has swooped down upon 
theirs like insects on a corpse ; they have fallen in their fine 
uniforms, beneath the blows from these bare arms which they 
thought were weak, not knowing that good wood is stronger 
when the bark is stripped off. They tremble now, these 
accursed tyrants ! Yo gagne peur ! ’ (Creole dialect, i They 
are afraid ! ’ ) A howl of joy and triumph answered the chief’s 
cry, and the band repeated it, ‘ Yo gagne peur ! ’ 

“ ‘ Blacks, Creoles, and Congos,’ cried Biassou, ‘ revenge and 
liberty ! Half-breeds, be not led away by los diabolos blancos. 
Your fathers belong to their ranks, but your mothers are in 
ours. For the rest, 0 hermanos de mi alma (‘ 0 brothers of 
my soul ’ ), they have never treated you as fathers, but as 
masters ; you were slaves like the blacks. While scarcely a 
wretched bit of cotton covered your limbs, which were burned 
with the sun, your cruel fathers strutted about in buenos som- 
breros, wearing nankeen vests on work-days, and on fete- days 
coats of barracan or velvet, a diez y siete quartos la vara (‘ at 
seventeen quartos la vara ’ — a Spanish measurement, equal to 
about an ell). Curse these unnatural creatures ! But, as the 
holy commandments of the bon Giu forbid it, do not strike 
your father yourself. If you meet him in the enemies’ ranks, 
however, who is there to hinder you, amigos , from saying to 
each other, 1 Touye papa moe ma touye quena tone? ” (‘ Kill my 
father, and I will kill thine ! ’ ) Mulattoes have been heard to 
utter these words, making terms, as it were, in regard to kill- 


BUG-JARGAL. 


87 


ing each other’s fathers.) ‘Vengeance, people of the king! 
Liberty for all ! ’ This cry finds an echo on every island ; it 
started from Quisqueya [The ancient name of Saint Domingo, 
meaning Grande-Terre (‘great land’). The early settlers called 
it also Aity~\, it awakens in Tabago and Cuba. It was a chief 
of the one hundred and twenty-five yellow negroes from the 
Blue Mountain, it was a black from Jamaica, Bouckmann, who 
raised the flag among us. A victory was his first brotherly 
act toward the blacks of Saint Domingo. Let us follow his 
glorious example, torch in one hand, an axe in the other! 
No mercy for the whites, the planters ! Let us massacre their 
families, let us devastate their plantations ; let us leave on 
their estates not a tree with its roots underground. Let us 
overthrow the earth that it may swallow up the whites ! 
Courage, then, friends and brothers ! We shall soon fight 
and exterminate them. We shall triumph, or we shall die. 
Conquerors, we shall enjoy, in our turn, every blessing of 
life ; dead, we shall join the saints in heaven, in paradise, 
where every brave man shall receive a double measure of 
aguardiente (‘ brandy ’), and a bag of coins a day ! ’ 

“ This soldierly sermon, which seems absurd to you, gentle- 
men, produced a wonderful effect on the rebels. It is true 
that there was a curious power and fascination in Biassou’s 
weird pantomime, in the inspired accents of his voice, in the 
strange irony of his words. The art by which he flattered 
the passion or the interest of the rebels added strength to 
his eloquence, which he suited to his audience. I will not try 
to describe the sombre enthusiasm which prevailed in the 
army of the insurgents after Biassou’s speech. There was a 
discordant mingling of cries, complaints, and groans. Some 
beat their breasts, others waved aloft their clubs and their 
swords. Several fell on their knees, and remained there in 
motionless ecstasy. Negresses tore their breasts and their 
arms with the fish-bones which they use as combs for their 
hair. The guitars, tamtams, tambourines, and balafos min- 
gled their music with the discharge of the musketry. It 
was like a nocturnal meeting of witches, 


88 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ Biassou waved his hand ; the tumult ceased as by magic, 
and every negro returned to his place in silence. This disci- 
pline, which Biassou exercised over his equals by the power of 
thought and will, filled me with admiration. Every soldier 
of the rebel army seemed to speak and move under the hand 
of its chief, as the keys of the harpsichord beneath the touch 
of a musician.” 


BUG-JARGAL. 


89 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ Another picture, another kind of charlatanism, then 
caught my attention: it was the dressing of the wounds. 
The obi , who fulfilled the two functions of minister of the soul 
and minister of the body, had begun his inspection of the 
patients. He laid aside his priestly ornaments, and had a 
great case brought to him filled with his drugs and instru- 
ments. He rarely used his surgical instruments, however ; and 
with the exception of a lancet made from a fish-bone, with 
which he bled very cleverly, he struck me as being very awk- 
ward in his handling of the pincers which took the place of 
the forceps, and of the knife which he used as a bistoury. 
Most of the time he prescribed drinks of oranges found in 
the woods, China-root and sarsaparilla, and a few swal- 
lows of tafia. His favorite, and, as he thought, his best, 
remedy consisted of three glasses of red wine, with which he 
mixed grated nutmeg and the yolk of a hard-boiled egg. He 
used this for every kind of complaint. You can easily see 
that this medicine was as absurd as the religion which he 
preached ; probably the small number of cases in which it 
was successful would not have sufficed to make the blacks 
have perfect confidence in the obi, had he not added the art 
of jugglery to his drugs, and sought to work as successfully 
on the imagination of the negroes as he failed to do in re- 
gard to their troubles. Thus, when he touched their wounds, 
he would make some mysterious signs ; then, at other times, 
he would resort to various old superstitions which were mixed 
up with early Catholicism. He would place on their wound a 
small fetich stone, wrapped in lint; and the patient attrib- 
uted to the stone the good effects of the lint. If he was 
told that one of his patients had died, he would reply, in a 


90 


BUG-JABGAL. 


solemn voice, that he was a traitor, that when such and such 
a settlement was burned, he had saved a white. His death was 
a punishment ; and the crowd of open-mouthed rebels would 
clap their hands, filled more than ever with hatred and ven- 
geance. Among others, the charlatan used one method of 
cure which struck me as very strange. It was in the case of 
one of the black chiefs, who had been dangerously wounded 
in the last combat. He made a long examination of the 
wound, dressed it as well as he could, and then, mounting the 
altar, ‘ All that amounts to nothing/ said he. Then he tore 
in two, three or four leaves of the prayer-book, burned them 
in the candles which had been stolen from the church at 
TAcul, and mixing the burned paper with a few drops of wine 
which he had poured into the chalice, he handed it to the 
wounded chief : ‘ Drink/ said he, ‘ this will cure you.’ (This 
remedy is still often used in Africa, especially among the 
Moors of Tripoli, who frequently throw into their beverages 
the cinders of a burned page from the book of Mahomet. 
This makes a philter to which they attribute sovereign vir- 
tues. Some English traveller calls this drink an infusion of 
Alcoran .) The chief drank, fixing his eyes upon the juggler, 
in perfect confidence. The latter raised his hands above him 
as though in benediction, and perhaps the feeling that he was 
cured helped to cure the chief ! 


BUG-JAEGAL. 


91 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“ Another scene, in which the veiled obi was the chief 
actor, followed this. The physician had taken the place of 
the priest, the sorcerer now took the place of the physician. 

“ ‘ Hombres , escuchate ! 9 ( ‘ Men, listen ; ’ the meaning which 
the Spaniards give to the word hombre, in this instance, can- 
not be translated; it is more than man , and less than 
friend) cried the obi , jumping with indescribable agility 
upon the improvised altar, where he sat with his legs crossed 
under his striped skirt ; ‘ escuchate , liombres ! those of you 
who wish to read their future from the book of destiny, 
and I will tell it ; he estudiado la ciencis de los gitanos ’ (‘ I 
have studied the science of the Egyptians *). 

“ A crowd of blacks and mulattoes surrounded him. 

“ ‘ One at a time ! ’ cried the obi , whose hollow voice some- 
times assumed that sharp tone which sounded so familiar to 
me ; ‘ if you all come at once, you will all die together/ 
They fell back. Just then a colored man, in a black jacket 
and white trousers, with a madras handkerchief on his head, 
after the fashion of the wealthy colonists, came up to Biassou. 
Consternation was written in every line of his face. 

“‘Well/ said the generalissimo in a low voice, ‘what is 
it ? What ails you, Rigaud ? 9 

“ It was the mulatto who commanded the troops from 
Cayes, since known under the name of General Rigaud , a 
deceitful man, but honest to all appearances, hiding his 
cruelty beneath a gentle manner. I looked at him atten- 
tively. 

“ ‘ General/ replied Rigaud (he spoke very low, but I was 
near enough to hear), ‘ at the edge of the camp there is a 
messenger from Jean-Franqois. Bouckmann has just been 


92 


B UG-JARGAL. 


killed in an encounter with Monsieur de Touzard ; and the 
whites have hung up his head as a trophy.” 

“ ‘ Is that all ? ’ asked Biassou, and his eyes sparkled with 
joy at the diminished number of the leaders. His impor- 
tance, in consequence, was increased. 

“ ( The messenger from Jean-FranQois has other news for you.’ 

“ ‘ That is good/ returned Biassou ; ‘ dispense with that 
woful countenance, ray dear Rigaud.’ 

“ ‘ But/ objected Rigaud, ‘ do you not fear the effect of 
Bouckmann’s death upon your army ? ’ 

“ ‘ You are not as simple as you seem, Rigaud/ replied the 
chief; ‘you shall see what Biassou will do. Only detain 
the messenger outside for fifteen minutes.’ 

“ Then he approached the obi , who, during this conversa- 
tion which no one but myself had overheard, had begun his 
office of conjurer, asking questions of the astonished negroes, 
examining the lines of their foreheads and hands, giving 
them more or less good fortunes, according to the sound, 
color, and weight of the money which each one threw into 
a plated silver urn. Biassou whispered a few words in his 
ear. The sorcerer, without interrupting himself, went on with 
his operations. 

“ ‘ This one/ said he, pointing to one with a small square 
figure or triangle in the middle of his forehead, ‘ means great 
wealth without trouble or labor. 

u 1 Three S’ s, no matter on what part of the forehead, is 
a very bad sign; if any one has them, he will surely be 
drowned, unless he avoids all water with the greatest care. 

“ 1 Four lines starting at the nose and curving two by two 
to the forehead above the eyes, mean that some day he will 
be a war-prisoner, and that he will groan as the captive of a 
stranger.’ 

“ Here the obi struck an attitude. 

“ ‘ Friend/ said he gravely, ‘ I have noticed this sign on 
the forehead of Bug-Jargal, the chief of the soldiers of the 
Morne Rouge.’ 


BUG—JARGAL. 


93 


“ These words, which again proved the capture of Bug- 
Jargal, were followed by lamentations from the entire com- 
pany which was composed of blacks alone, and whose chiefs 
wore scarlet cockades. It was the company of the Morne 
Rouge. 

The obi continued : — 

“ ‘ If you have on the right side of your forehead, over 
the line of the moon, anything which resembles a fork, be 
careful not to live an idle life, or to seek too much pleasure. 

“ ‘ A small but very important sign, the Arabian figure for 
the number 3, over the line of the sun, means a flogging 9 — 

“ An old negro, Spanish-Domingo, interrupted the sorcerer, 
begging him to bind up the wound which he had received on 
his forehead. One of his eyes, too, had been torn from its 
socket, and was hanging down covered with blood. The obi 
had forgotten him in his medical round. When he saw him, 
he cried out, — 

“ 1 Round figures on the right side of the forehead, over the 
line of the moon, mean some harm to the eyes. Hombre 9 
said he to the wretched man, ‘ this sign is very apparent on 
your forehead ; let us see your hand.’ 

“ 1 Alas ! excelentissimo senor 9 replied the other, ‘ mis 9 usted 
mi ojo ! 9 Alas ! most excellent lord, see my eye ! ’) 

Fatras 9 replied the obi jokingly, ‘I have reason to see 
your eye ! It is your hand I want ! 9 

“The poor wretch showed his hand, murmuring again, ‘ Mi 
ojo / ’ 

“ 1 Good ! 9 exclaimed the sorcerer. 1 If over the life-line 
there is a point surrounded by a small circle, it means that 
the person shall lose one eye. Here it is, here is the point 
and the small circle ; you will be blind in one eye. 9 

“ l Ya le soy 9 (‘I know that already ’), replied the fellow, 
with piteous groans. 

“But the obi , who was not then a surgeon, pushed him 
roughly away, and continued without paying further heed to 
the poor man’s moans : — 


94 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ ‘ Escuchate, hombres ! If the seven lines on the forehead 
are small, zigzag, faint, they mean a short life. 

“ ‘ Two arrows crossed between the eyebrows on the line of 
the moon mean death in a battle. 

“ 1 If the life-line has a cross at the end, near the joint, it 
means death on the scaffold. And,’ continued the obi , ( I 
must tell yon, hermanos , that one of the bravest supporters 
of independence, Bouckmann, had these fatal marks.’ 

“ At these words the negroes held their breath ; their eyes 
were fixed immovably upon the juggler, and expressed an 
attention which was almost stupor. 

“ 1 Only,’ added the obi , 1 1 cannot explain this double sign 
of Bouckmann’s, which means both a battle and a scaffold. 
However, my art is infallible.’ 

“ He stopped, and spoke to Biassou. The latter whispered 
a few words to one of his aides-de-camp, who left the cave 
without delay. 

“ 1 A gaping, drooping mouth,’ resumed the obi , turning back 
to the audience, in his malicious, jeering tone, ‘an insipid 
attitude, arms which hang down, with the left hand turned 
outside without one’s knowing why, — all this means natural 
stupidity, ignorance, and dull curiosity.’ 

“ Biassou chuckled. At that moment the aide-de-camp re- 
turned, leading a negro covered with dirt and dust, and whose 
feet, torn by the rocks and stones, showed that he had come 
a long distance. He was the messenger whom Rigaud had 
announced. He held in one hand a sealed packet, in the 
other an open parchment which bore a seal, stamped with a 
burning heart. In the centre was a monogram with the char- 
acteristic letters M and N intertwined to designate, no doubt, 
the union of the free mulattoes and the negro slaves. By the 
side of the monogram I read this scroll, ‘ Prejudice conquered, 
the rod of iron broken ; long live the king ! ’ This parchment 
was a passport sent by Jean-Franqois. 

“ The messenger presented it to Biassou, and bowing to the 
ground, handed him the sealed packet. The generalissimo 


BXJG-JARGAL. 


95 


opened it quickly, read the despatch, put it into the pocket 
of his jacket, and striking his hands together, cried in a 
disconsolate voice, — 

“ 1 People of the king ! ’ 

“ The negroes bowed low. 

“ ‘ People of the king ! Hear what is sent to Jean Biassou, 
the generalissimo of the conquered countries, marshal of the 
field and of the armies of his Catholic Majesty, from Jean- 
Franqois, grand admiral of France, lieutenant-general of the 
armies of his aforesaid Majesty, the King of the Spanish 
provinces and the Indies: — 

“ 1 Bouckmann, commander of one hundred and twenty 
blacks between the Blue Mountain and Jamaica, recognized 
as free by the Governor-General of Belle-Combe, has just died 
in the glorious fight for liberty and humanity against despo- 
tism and barbarity. This generous leader was killed in an 
encounter with the white brigands under the infamous Tou- 
zard. The wretches have cut off his head, and have an- 
nounced that they will raise it shamefully on a scaffold on 
the place of arms in their city of the Cape. Vengeance P 
“ The silence of despair fell upon the army. But the obi 
rose again upon the altar, and cried, waving his white baton 
triumphantly : — 

“ ‘ Salomon, Zorobabel, flleazar Thaleb, Cardan, Judas, 
Bowtharicht, Averroes, Albert the Great, Bohabdil, Jean de 
Hagen, Anna Baratro, Daniel Ogrumof, Bachel Flintz, Altor- 
nino! I thank you. The ciencia of the prophets has not 
failed me. Hijos , amigos , hermanos , muchachos, mozos, 
madres , y, vosotros todas qui me escuchais aqui (‘ Sons, friends, 
brothers, boys, children, mothers, all who hear me’), what did 
I predict ? que habia dicho ? The lines on Bouckmann’ s 
forehead said that he would not live long, that he would fall 
in a combat; the lines of his hand, that he would appear 
upon the scaffold. The revelations of my art are faithfully 
realized; and the events arrange themselves to bring about 
details to which we cannot reconcile ourselves, his death on 


96 


BUG-JARGAL. 


the battlefield, and the scaffold ! Brothers, show your 
admiration ! ’ 

“The despair of the blacks changed to wondering amaze- 
ment. They listened to the obi with a trust mingled with 
terror; he, perfectly satisfied with himself, walked up and 
down upon the box of sugar, the top of which was large 
enough for his feet to have plenty of room. Biassou chuckled, 
and spoke to the obi. 

“ 1 Chaplain, since you can read the future, it pleases us to 
ask what is to be our fortune, Jean Biassou’s, mariscal de 
campo .’ 

“ The obi stood proudly upon the altar, where the credu- 
lous blacks looked up to him as to a god, and said to the 
mariscal de camjpo, 1 Venga vuestra merced / ’ (‘Approach, 
your grace ! ’ ) 

“ At that moment the obi was the most important man in 
the whole army. The military power yielded before the 
priestly power. Biassou drew nearer. There was an angry 
light in his eyes. 

“ ‘ Your hand, General/ said the obi , stooping to take it. 
i Empezo (‘ I begin ’ ). The line of the joint, equally distinct in 
its entire length, means wealth and happiness. The life-line, 
long and distinct, means a life free from trouble, and a green 
old age; if straight, it means you have wisdom, ingenuity, 
generosity of heart ; finally, I see in it what the chiromancos 
call the best sign of all, a cluster of little lines in the form of 
a branching tree, rising toward the upper part of the hand ; 
this means wealth and greatness. The health-line is very 
long, and proves what the life-line says ; it indicates courage 
also; curving to the little finger, it makes a sort of a hook, 
— General, this is the sign of wise severity.’ 

“ At this word the brilliant eye of the little obi stared at 
me from behind the holes in his veil, and again I noticed a 
familiar tone hidden beneath his naturally hollow voice. 
Then he continued, with the same gestures and in the same 
tone ; — 


BUG-JARGAL. 


97 


u ‘ Filled with small circles, the health-line indicates 
many necessary executions which you should order. It is 
interrupted in the centre, and forms a half-circle, a sign that 
you will be exposed to great risks with wild beasts, that is, 
the whites, if you do not exterminate them. The line of 
fortune , surrounded, like the life-line, by smaller lines rising 
toward the upper part of the hand, indicates future power and 
supremacy, which you are to have ; straight and faint in the 
upper part, it indicates talent for ruling. The fifth line, that 
of the triangle , extending to the middle finger, promises suc- 
cess in every undertaking. Now let me see the fingers. 
The thumb has small horizontal lines running from the nail 
to the joint ; this means a great inheritance ; Bouckmann’s 
glory probably ! ’ added the obi aloud. 1 The high part 
which lies at the root of the index finger is full of small 
faint lines ; they mean honor and laurels ! The middle finger 
tells nothing; the ring finger is full of lines crossing one 
another; this means that you will conquer all your enemies, 
you will overthrow every rival ! The lines forming crosses 
of Saint-Andre indicate genius and foresight ! The joint 
where the little finger meets the hand is crossed by tortuous 
lines ; fortune will heap favors upon you. I see the figure of 
a circle there too, which indicates that you will grant power 
and honors ! 

“ 1 “Happy,” says fSleazer Thaleb “ is he who has all these 
signs ! the future holds his prosperity, and his star will guide 
him to the genie who bestows glory.” Now, General, let me 
see your forehead. “ Any one,” says Bachel Flintz, the gypsy, 
“ who has in the middle of his forehead, over the line of the 
sun, a small square, or a triangle, will have a great fortune.” 
Here is the figure, well marked. “ If the line is on the right, 
it means an important succession.” Still that of Bouck- 
mann ! “ A horseshoe between the eyebrows, below the line 

of the moon, indicates that you will avenge yourself for 
injury and tyranny.” I have this sign ; you, too.’ 

“ The way in which the obi pronounced the words, ‘ I have 
this sign / struck me again. 


98 


BUG-JABGAL. 


“ 1 Then/ he added, in the same tone, ‘ the soldiers who 
plan a bold revolt and overthrow servitude have it. The 
lion’s claw which you have above your eyebrow means bril- 
liant courage. Finally, General Jean Biassou, yotfr forehead 
shows the most strikingly prosperous lines ; it has a combina- 
tion of lines which form the letter M, the first in the name of 
the Virgin. No matter on what part of the forehead or on 
what line this figure appears, it indicates genius, glory, and 
power. The one who has it will always win, whatever cause 
he undertakes ; those over whom he will be leader will never 
have cause to regret their loss ; he alone will be worth all the* 
defenders of his party. You are this one chosen by fate.’ 

“ 1 Gratias, Chaplain/ said Biassou, starting to return to 
his mahogany throne. 

u ( Wait, General/ resumed the obi ; ‘I forgot one sign. 
The line of the sun, strongly marked on your forehead, indi- 
cates well-living, the desire to make people happy, great lib- 
erality, and a love of luxury.’ 

“ Biassou seemed to think that the omission had been more 
on his part than on that of the obi. He drew from his pocket 
a well-filled purse, and threw it into the silver urn, that the 
line of the sun might speak true. 

“ However, the shining horoscope of the chief had a good 
effect upon the army. Every rebel, on whom the words of 
the obi produced a greater impression than ever after the 
news of Bouckmann’s death had been announced, turned from 
despair to enthusiasm, and trusting blindly in their infallible 
sorcerer and their general, began to shout : ‘ Long live the 
obi ! Long live Biassou ! ’ The obi and Biassou looked at 
each other ; and I thought that I heard the smothered laugh 
of the obi , and the chuckle of the generalissimo. 

“ 1 do not know why this obi troubled my mind ; it seemed 
as though I had seen or heard some one who resembled the 
strange being; I wanted to hear him speak to me. 

u ‘ Master obi , senor cura, doctor medico , chaplain bon Per ! ’ 
I called. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


99 


“He turned. 

“ ‘ There is still some one whose horoscope you have not 
told ; I mean myself/ 

“ He crossed his arms upon the silver sun which covered 
his shaggy breast, and did not reply. I said again, — 

“ ‘ I should like to know what you think the future has in 
store for me ; but your honest comrades have stolen my 
watch and my purse, and you are not a sorcerer to read for- 
tunes gratis / 

“ He came quickly toward me, and muttered in my ear, — 

“‘You are mistaken! Let me see your hand.’ I raised it, 
watching him. His eyes shone, he seemed to be examining 
my hand. 

“ ‘ If the life-line/ he said, ‘ is cut at the centre, by two 
small but strongly marked transverse lines, it is the sign of 
approaching death. Your death is at hand ! 

“ ‘ If the line of health is not in the middle of the hand, 
and if the life-line and the line of fortune form an angle at 
their starting-point, the death will not be a natural one. Do 
not expect a natural death ! 

“ ‘ If the lower part of the index finger is crossed by a line 
along its entire length, you will die a violent death ! 9 

“There was something joyous in the hollow tones of the 
voice which announced my death ; but I heard him with 
scorn and indifference. 

“ ‘ Sorcerer/ said I, with a disdainful smile, ‘you are clever, 
you foretell a sure thing/ 

“ He came nearer to me. 

“‘You doubt my art, do you? Well! listen. The break- 
ing of the line of the sun on your forehead tells me that you 
mistake an enemy for a friend, and a friend for an enemy/ 

“The words seemed to refer to that wretched Pierrot, 
whom I had loved and who had betrayed me, and to the faith- 
ful Habibrah, whom I hated, and whose bloody clothes had 
attested his brave and devoted death. 

“ ‘ What do you mean ? 9 1 cried. 


100 


BUG-JAEGAL. 


“ ‘ Listen to the end/ continued the obi. 1 I have told you 
the future, this is the past; the line of the moon is slightly 
curved on your forehead, that means that your wife has been 
stolen from you.’ 

“ I trembled ; I strove to spring from my seat, but my 
guards held me back. 

“ ( You are not patient/ resumed the sorcerer ; 1 listen to the 
end. The little cross which cuts the end of this curve com- 
pletes the fortune. Your wife was stolen from you on the 
very night of your wedding.’ 

Wretch!’ I cried, ‘you know where she is! Who are 
you ? ’ 

“ Again I strove to free myself, and to tear away his veil, 
but one must yield to numbers and strength ; and it was with 
fury that I watched the mysterious obi leaving me. 

“ 1 Do you believe in me now ? ’ he asked. ‘ Prepare your- 
self for immediate death ! ’ 


B UG—JARGAL. 


101 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

“ My attention was turned for a moment from these per- 
plexing thoughts by a tragedy which followed the absurd 
- comedy just played before the astonished blacks. 

“ Biassou had taken his seat again upon the mahogany 
throne; the obi was on his right, Rigaud on his left, on the 
two scarlet squares. The obi , his arms crossed on his breast, 
seemed lost in deep meditation ; Biassou and Rigaud were 
chewing tobacco; and an aide-de-camp had just asked the 
mariscal de campo if he wished to review the army, when 
three noisy groups of blacks arrived at the entrance of the 
cave, shouting furiously. Each group held a prisoner, whom 
they were bringing to Biassou, not so much for the sake of 
asking him for pardon, as to know his will regarding the 
punishment to be inflicted. Their ominous cries expressed 
only too well : ‘ Death ! Death ! Muerte ! Muerte ! ’ — 1 Death ! 
Death ! ’ some English negroes echoed, who no doubt belonged 
to Bouckmann’s company, which had already come up to join 
the Spanish and French blacks belonging to Biassou. 

The wrmriscal de campo waved his hand for silence, and 
told the three captives to advance to the entrance of the cave. 
I was surprised to recognize two of them ; one was the Citizen 

General C , the philanthropic correspondent of every ne- 

grophile in the world, who had suggested such a cruel plan 
in the council, for the slaves. The other was the suspected 
planter who had shown such scorn for the mulattoes, one of 
whom the whites had considered him. The third appeared 
to belong to the class of the petits blancs ; he wore a leather 
apron, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The 
three had been caught separately, as they were trying to hide 
among the mountains. 


102 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ The petit blanc was questioned first. 

“ ‘ Who are you ? ’ asked Biassou. 

“ ‘ 1 am Jacques Belin, a carpenter in the Hospital of the 
Fathers, at the Cape.’ 

“ Surprise mingled with shame shone in the eyes of the 
generalissimo of the conquered countries. 

“ ‘ Jacques Belin ! ’ exclaimed he, biting his lips. 

“ ‘Yes,’ replied the carpenter ; ‘ do you not remember me ? ’ 

“ ‘ Begin,’ said the mariscal de campo , ‘ by recognizing me 
and bowing.’ 

“ ‘ I do not bow to my slave ! ’ the carpenter answered. 

“ ‘ Your slave ! you wretch ! ’ cried the generalissimo. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ replied the carpenter, ‘ yes, I was your first master. 
You pretend you do not know me ; but, J ean Biassou, I sold 
you for thirteen piastres to a merchant from San Domingo.’ 

“ The face of Biassou contracted with anger. 

“The^?e^ blanc continued, ‘You seem ashamed at having 
served me ! Should not Jean Biassou feel honored to have 
belonged to Jacques Belin ? Your mother, the old fool, has 
often swept my house ; but not long since I sold her to the 
major-domo of the Hospital of the Fathers. She is so decrepit 
that he would give me only thirty-two pounds for her, and six 
cents in change. But, nevertheless, this is your history and 
hers. It seems that you have become proud, you negroes and 
mulattoes, forgetting the time when you were slaves. “ On 
your knees, Master Jacques Belin, the carpenter from the 
Cape,” you say.’ 

“ Biassou listened with the fierce chuckle which resembled 
a tiger’s. 

“ ‘ Well !’ said he. 

“ Then, turning toward the negroes who had brought Master 
Belin, — 

“ ‘ Get two wooden horses, two planks, and a saw, and take 
away this man. Jacques Belin, carpenter from the Cape, 
thank me, for I am going to give you a carpenter’s death.’ 

“ His laugh told of the horrible punishment which was to 


BUG-JARGAL. 


103 


lay low the pride of his former master. I shivered, but 
Jacques Belin did not move an eyelash ; he turned proudly 
to Biassou. 

“ ‘ Yes/ said he, ‘ I ought to thank you, for I sold you for 
thirteen piastres, and you certainly brought me more than 
you are worth.’ 

“ They led him away. 


104 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

‘‘The two other prisoners had listened, more dead than 
alive, to what was the frightful prologue of their own 
tragedy. Their humble and scared attitude was a great 
contrast to the somewhat swaggering boldness of the carpen- 
ter ; they shook in every limb. 

“ Biassou looked first at one, then at the other, with his 
sly glance ; and, being pleased to prolong their agony, he en- 
gaged Rigaud in a conversation concerning the various kinds 
of tobacco, saying that the tobacco from Havana was not 
good to smoke in cigars, and that he knew no better Spanish 
tobacco than that of which the late Bouckmann had brought 
him two boxes, bought at Monsieur Lebattu’s, the proprietor 
of the island of La Tortue. Then, turning suddenly to the 
Citizen-General C : 

“ ‘ What do you think about it ? ’ he asked. 

“ The citizen started at the unexpected question, and ans- 
wered tremblingly, — 

“‘I am of the same opinion, General, as your Excellency. ’ 

“ ‘ Flattery ! ’ answered Biassou. ‘ I ask for your advice, 
not mine. Do you know a better tobacco than Monsieur 
Lebattu’s ? ’ 

11 1 No, indeed, my Lord/ replied C , whose nervousness 

amused Biassou. 

“ ‘ General ! Excellency ! My Lord ! ’ repeated the chief 
impatiently ; ‘ are you not an aristocrat ? 9 

“ 1 Ho, indeed ! 9 cried the Citizen-General ; ‘ I am a good 
patriot of ’91, and a strong negrophile.’ 

“ 1 Neyrojphile ! ’ interrupted the generalissimo ; 1 what is a 
negrophile ? ’ 

“ ‘ A friend of the blacks,’ muttered the citizen. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


105 


“ ‘ It is not enough to be a friend of the blacks/ answered 
Biassou severely ; ‘ you must be a friend to the colored men too/ 

“ 1 think I have said that Biassou was a sacatra. 

“‘That is what I mean/ humbly replied the negrophile. 
‘ I am in sympathy with all the best-known partisans of the 
negroes and mulattoes/ 

“ Biassou, happy at having humiliated a white, again in- 
terrupted him : ‘ Negroes and mulattoes ! What do you 
mean by that ? Do you come here to insult us with these 
odious names, invented by the scorn of the whites ? There 
are only colored men and blacks here. Do you understand, 
master colonist ? ’ 

“ ‘ It is a bad habit I learned in infancy/ replied C . 

‘ Pardon me, I did not mean to offend you, monseigneur/ 

“ ‘ Stop calling me “monseigneur ; ” I tell you that I do not 

like these aristocratic habits/ C again excused himself, 

and began to stammer a new explanation. 

“ ‘ If you knew me, Citizen 9 — 

‘“Citizen! For whom do you take me?’ cried Biassou 
angrily; ‘I detest this jargon of the Jacobins. Are yqu, 
by any chance, a Jacobin ? Bemember that you are address- 
ing the generalissimo of the people of the king! Citizen! 
The insolent ! ’ 

“ The poor negrophile had no idea how to address this 
man, who scorned equally the title of monseigneur and citizen , 
the terms of the aristocracy and of the patriots ; he was 
nonplussed, and Biassou, whose anger was only feigned, was 
deriving a cruel enjoyment from his embarrassment. 

“ ‘ Alas ! ’ cried the Citizen-General at last, ‘you judge me 
wrongly, noble Defender-of-the-unprescribed-rights-of-the-half- 
of-the-human-race . ' 

“ In his desire to give some title to the chief who refused 
all, he resorted to one of the well-sounding paraphrases 
which the revolutionists willingly substitute for the name 
and title of the person addressed. 

“ Biasssou looked fixedly at him, and said, — 


* 


106 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ 1 So you like the blacks and half-breeds ? ’ 

“ 1 Like them ! ’ cried the Citizen C , ‘ I correspond 

with Brissot and , — 

“ Biassou interrupted him with a chuckle : — 

“ ‘ Ah ! ah ! I am delighted to find in you a friend of our 
cause. In this case, you probably detest the wretched colo- 
nists who punished our first insurrection by the most fright- 
ful acts of cruelty ; you probably agree with us that it is not 
the blacks, but the whites, who are the real rebels, since they 
are revolting against nature and humanity; you probably 
hate these monsters.’ 

“ ‘ I do ! ’ cried C . 

“ ‘ Well/ continued Biassou, ‘ what would you think of a 
man who, in order to put an end to the final attempts of the 
slaves, would have planted the heads of fifty blacks on both 
sides of the avenue to his home ?” 

“ The pallor of C ’s face grew alarming. 

“ 1 What would you think of a white who would suggest 
surrounding the city of the Cape by a cordon of the heads of 
slaves ? ’ 

“ ‘ Pity, pity I ’ cried the Citizen-General, terrified. 

“ 1 Have I threatened you ? ’ coldly asked Biassou. ‘ Let 
me finish — by a cordon of heads, about the city, from Fort 
Picolet to Cape Caracol ? What would you think of that, 
hey ? Tell me ! ’ 

“ The words, ‘ Have I threatened yon ? 1 brought back some 

hope to C ; he thought perhaps the chief knew these 

horrors, but not the originator of them, and he replied with 
some firmness, in order to prevent all idea of his having 
done it, — 

“ i I think that they are atrocious crimes.’ 

“ Biassou chuckled. 

“ ‘ Good ! and how would you punish the one who sug- 
gested them ? ’ The wretched C hesitated. 

“ 1 Well/ cried Biassou, 1 are you a friend of the blacks, or 
not ? ’ 


BUG-JARGAL. 


107 


“Of the two alternatives, the negrophile chose the least 
alarming ; and, seeing nothing to fear for himself in Biassou’ s 
eyes, he said in a weak voice, — 

“ ‘ He deserves death.’ 

“ ‘ Certainly,’ calmly replied Biassou, spitting out the 
tobacco he had been chewing. His indifferent manner 
brought back some assurance to the poor negrophile, who 
made an effort to throw off every suspicion which might cling 
to him. 

“ ‘ No one,’ he cried, ‘ has promised more than I to aid j^our 
cause. I correspond with Brissot, and Pruneau de Pomme- 
Gouge, in France; Magaw, in America ; Peter Paulus, in Hol- 
land; the Abbe Tamburini, in Italy’ — 

“ He continued calmly to ennumerate the philanthropic 
list which he had given under other circumstances and in an- 
other cause, at Monsieur de Blanchelandes. Finally Biassou 
interrupted him. 

“ i Well, of what use to me is all this ? Tell me merely 
where are your magazines, your depots ; my army needs 
ammunition. No doubt your plantations are rich, your busi- 
ness should be good, since you correspond with every mer- 
chant on earth.’ 

“ The Citizen C ventured a timid observation. 

“ ‘ Hero of humanity, these are not merchants, these are 
philosophers, philanthropists, negrophiles.’ 

“ 1 Well,’ said Biassou, shaking his head, ‘ there he goes 
again, with his strange, devilish expressions. If you have 
neither depots or magazines to rob, of what use are you ? ’ 

“ The question offered a ray of hope, which C seized 

upon greedily. 

“ ‘ Illustrious warrior,’ he replied, ‘ have you an economist 
in your army ? ’ 

“ ‘ What may that be ? ’ demanded the chief. 

' “The prisoner answered with as much boldness as his 
terror permitted : 1 It is a necessary man, par excellence , one 
who alone can appreciate, according to their respective worth, 


108 


BUG-JARGAL. 


the material resources of an empire ; who considers them in 
the order of their importance, classes them according to their 
value, helps and improves them by combining them, and dis- 
tributes them accordingly, like so many river-feeders in the 
great stream of general utility, which in turn enlarges the sea 
of public prosperity.’ 

“ ‘ Caramba ! ’ exclaimed Biassou, leaning over toward the 
obi. ‘ What does the devil mean, with one word running 
into the other like the beads of your chaplet ? ’ 

“ The obi shrugged his shoulders, in ignorance and disdain. 
But the Citizen C-^ continued : — 

“ ‘ I have studied, deign to hear me, 0 valiant chief of the 
brave regenerators of San Domingo, — I have studied the 
great economists, Turgot, Raynal, and Mirabeau, the friend of 
mankind. I have put their theories into practice. I know 
the science indispensable to the government of every kingdom 
and every state.’ 

“ ‘ The economist does not economize in words ! ’ said Ri- 
gaud, with his soft, sneering smile. Biassou cried out, — 

“ ‘ Tell me, prattler, have I kingdoms and states to govern ? ’ 

“ ‘Not yet, great man,’ replied C , ‘ but they will come ; m 

besides, my art touches upon the details needful for the man- 
aging of an army.’ 

“ The generalissimo again interrupted him. 

“ ‘ 1 do not manage my army, master planter, I command 
it.’ 

“ ‘ Better yet,’ observed the citizen ; 1 you shall be the gen- 
eral ; I, the commissary. I have special receipts for the mul- 
tiplication of animals.’ 

“ ‘ Do you think that we raise beasts ? ’ asked Biassou, with 
a chuckle, ‘we eat them. When the beasts in the French 
colony give out, I shall cross the mountains of the frontier, 
and shall steal the cows and sheep raised in the huts in the 
great plains of the Cotuy, la Vega, and Sant-Jago, and along 
the banks of the Yuna ; I shall go, if necessary, even to the 
island of Samana, and beyond the mountain of Cibos, from 


BUG-JARGAL. 


109 


the month of the Neybe, even beyond San Domingo. , More- 
over, I shall take delight in punishing these d Spanish 

planters ; it is they who freed Oge ! You see that I am not 
troubled for want of food, and that I do not need your art, 
u necessary, par excellence .” ’ 

“ This strong speech disconcerted the poor economist ; but 
he tried another anchor for safety. 

“ ‘ My studies are not limited to the breeding of beasts. 
I have other special receipts which may be useful to you. I 
can tell you how to discover child’s clout and charcoal mines.’ 

“ 1 Of what use are they ? ’ asked Biassou. ‘ When I need 
charcoal, I burn three leagues of forest-wood.’ 

“ ‘ I can tell you of what use is each kind of wood,’ con- 
tinued the prisoner ; ‘ chicory and sabiecca for the keels of 
ships ; yabas for the knees ; medlar-trees for the timbers ; 
hacomas , gaiacs , cedars , accomas ’ — 

“ ‘ Que te lleven lodos los demonios de tos diez-y-siete infier- 
nos ! ’ (‘Go to the demons of the seventeen hells!’) cried 
Biassou, impatient. 

“ 1 What is your wish, my gracious patron ? ’ asked the 
economist tremblingly, who had not caught the Spanish words. 

11 1 Listen to me,’ said Biassou, ‘ I have no need of ships. 
There is only one position vacant ; it is not the mayor-domo’s , 
but the serving-man’s. Think, senor filosofo , would it suit 
you ? You would serve me on bended knee ; you would bring 
me my pipe, my ragout, and turtle soup ; and you would stand 
behind me with a fan of peacock or parrot feathers, like these 
two pages. Hum! answer me, should you like to be my 
valet ? ’ 

“ Citizen C , thinking only of his life, bowed to the 

ground with -a thousand gestures of joy and gratitude. 

“ < You are willing to accept it, then ? ’ asked Biassou. 

“ ‘ Can you think, my generous master, that I would hesi- 
tate an instant at doing so small a favor as serving you ? ’ 

“ At these words Biassou’s diabolical chuckle became 
greater than ever. He crossed his arms, rose with an air of 


110 


BUG-JARGAL. 


triumph, and pushing aside the head of the white, who was 
kneeling before him, he cried aloud : — 

“ I am glad to have found out how great is the cowardice 
of the whites, after having known how great is their cruelty ! 
Citizen C , I owe this double knowledge to you. I recog- 

nized you ! How could you be stupid enough not to see it ? 
It was you who had charge of the punishments in June, July, 
and August ; it was you who planted the heads of fifty blacks 
on both sides of your avenue, instead of palm-trees ; it was 
you who wanted to kill the five hundred negroes who were 
prisoners after the revolt, and to surround the town of the 
Cape with negroes’ heads, from Fort Picolet to Cape Caracol. 
You would have taken my head, as a trophy, had you been 
able to do so ; and now you would think yourself fortunate if 
I were to let you be my valet. Ho, no ! I am more careful 
of your honor than are you yourself ; I will not insult you 
thus. Prepare to die.’ 

“He waved his hand; and the blacks laid near me the 
wretched negropliile, who, without a word, had fallen to the 
ground as though struck by lightning. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ ‘ Your turn now/ said the chief, turning to the last 
prisoner, the colonist suspected by the whites of being a 
half-breed, and who had challenged me for the insult. His 
answer was lost in the confusion. 

“ The rebels raised a general cry of 1 Muerte ! Muerte ! 
Mort ! Death ! Touye ! Touye ! ’ and ground their teeth, shak- 
ing their fists at the unfortunate captive. 

“ 1 General/ said a mulatto who expressed himself more 
clearly than the others, 1 he is a white ; he must die ! ’ 

“The poor planter, by shouts and gesticulations, at last 
succeeded in making himself heard. 

“‘No, no ! General ; no, my brothers, I am not a white ! 
It is an abominable slander ! I am a mulatto, a half-breed 
like you, son of a negress like your mothers and sisters ! ’ 

“ ‘ He lies ! ’ cried the negroes, furious. ‘ He is a white. 
He has always hated the blacks and the colored men ’ — 

“ 1 Never ! ’ retorted the prisoner. * They are whites whom 
I hate. I am one of your brothers. I have always said 
with you, “ Negre ce blan , blan ce negre! ” ' (A popular say- 
ing among the rebel negroes, of which the following is the 
literal translation, 1 The negroes are the whites, the whites 
are the negroes/ The sense will be the better understood 
by this translation, 1 The negroes are the masters ; the whites 
are the slaves /) 

“ ‘ No, no ! ? cried all ; ( touye Man , touye Man ! ’ (‘ Kill the 
white, kill the white ! ’ ) 

“ The wretched man groaned in misery, repeating the 
words, — 

“ 1 1 am a mulatto ! I am one of your own people/ 

“ ‘ What proof have you ?’ asked Biassou coldly. 


112 


BUO-JARGAL. 


“ 1 The proof/ replied the other confused, ‘ is that the 
whites have always scorned me.’ 

(< 1 Perhaps that is true/ replied Biassou, ‘ but you are an 
impudent fellow.’ 

“ A young half-breed spoke to the colonist, — 

“ 1 The whites despise you, and it is right that they should ; 
but, on the other hand, you pretend to despise the half-breeds, 
among whom they place you. I have even heard that you 
had a duel with a white who once had reproached you for 
belonging to our class.’ 

“ A murmur rose from the indignant crowd, and shouts of 
death, more violent than ever, drowned the colonist’s explana- 
tion. He glanced at me in despair, and burst into tears. 

“ 1 It is a slander ! I have no other glory, no other honor, 
than to belong to the blacks. I am a mulatto.’ 

“ ‘ If you are really a mulatto/ observed Rigaud calmly, 
‘you would not use that term.’ (It must be remembered 
that the colored men scornfully rejected this word, invented, 
they say, by the scorn of the whites.) 

“ ‘ Alas ! do I know what I am saying ? ’ asked the poor 
fellow. ‘ General, the proof of my being a half-breed is this 
black circle which you see around my nails.’ (Many half- 
breeds do have this sign, which in time wears off, but which 
re-appears again in their children.) 

“ Biassou thrust aside his hand. 

“ ‘ I have not the art of the chaplain, who tells what you 
are from looking at your hand. But listen to me ; our sol- 
diers accuse you, some of being white, others of being false. 
If this is true, you must die. You declare that you belong 
to our class and that you have never denied us. There is 
one way for you to prove this, and thus save yourself.’ 

“ ‘ What is it, General, what ? ’ asked the colonist eagerly. 
‘I am ready.’ 

“ ‘ This/ said Biassou coldly. ‘ Take this dagger, and 
stab these two white prisoners.’ 

“ As he spoke, he pointed to us. The colonist recoiled in 


BUG-JARGAL. 


113 


horror at sight of the stiletto which Biassou had handed out 
to him with an infernal smile. 

“ ‘ Well/ said the chief, “ you hesitate ? That, however, 
is the only way of proving to me, as well as to my army, that 
you are not a white, but one of us. Come, decide. We lose 
time/ 

a The eyes of the prisoner stood out from their sockets. 
He stepped toward the dagger, then dropped his arm and 
stopped, shaking his head. A shiver ran through his body. 

“ ‘ Come ! ’ said Biassou, in anger and impatience, 1 1 am in 
haste. Choose, either you will kill them, or you will die 
with them/ 

“ The colonist stood petrified. 

“ ‘ Very good ! ’ said Biassou, turning to the negroes ; 1 he 
does not wish to be the executioner, he will be the victim. I 
see that he is a white ; take him away/ 

“ The blacks advanced to seize him. 

“ This decided him between giving death or receiving it. 
Extreme cowardice has its courage. He rushed at the dagger 
which Biassou held out ; and without stopping an instant to 
think what he was doing, he threw himself like a tiger upon 

the Citizen C , who was lying by my side. Then began a 

horrible struggle. The negrophile, whom the result of Bias- 
sou’s cross-examination had plunged into a dull, stupid 
despair, had seen what had been going on between the half- 
breed and the chief, but he had been so absorbed by thoughts 
of his coming tortures, that he had not wholly understood 
what had been happening; but when he saw the colonist 
spring upon him, and the steel shine above his head, his 
imminent danger recalled him in an instant. He sprang up, 
grasping the murderer’s arm, and crying out pitifully, — 

“ 1 Pity ! pity ! What would you do to me ? What have I 
done ? ’ 

“ ‘ You must die, sir,’ replied the other, striving to disen- 
gage his arm, and glaring at his victim with wild eyes. t Let 
me alone, I will not hurt you/ 


114 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ ‘ Die at your hand ? ’ cried the economist, ‘ but why ? 
Spare me ! You are angry, perhaps, at what I once said about 
your being a half-breed ? But let me live, I swear I will call 
you a white. Yes, you are a white. I will noise it abroad, 
but mercy ! ’ 

“ The negrophile had chosen a poor means of defence. 

“ ‘ Silence, silence ! ’ cried the half-breed, infuriated, fear- 
ing that the negroes would hear the words. 

“But the other shouted, without listening to him, that he 
knew he was a white and of good family. The half-breed 
made a last effort to silence him, slipped quickly from him, 
and drove the dagger through the citizen’s clothes. The 
wretch felt the point of steel, and bit with rage into the arm 
which drove it. 

“ 1 Monster ! murderer ! you would kill me ! ’ 

“ He looked toward Biassou. 

“ ( Defend me, Avenger of Humanity ! ’ 

“But the murderer leaned heavily on the dagger, a wave 
of blood spurted over his hand and across his face, and sud- 
denly the knees of the unfortunate negrophile gave way, his 
arms fell, his eyes closed, his lips gave a muffled groan. He 
was dead. 


BUG-JABGAL. 


115 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

“ This tragedy, in which I expected soon to take part, had 
frozen me with horror. The Avenger of Humanity had 
watched the struggle of his two victims with an unfaltering 
eye. When it was over, he turned toward the frightened 
pages. 

“ ‘ Bring me some more tobacco/ said he ; and he calmly 
resumed his chewing. The obi and Rigaud were immovable, 
and the negroes themselves seemed frightened at the horrible 
scene which had just taken place. 

“ But one more white still remained to be killed, — I. My 
time had come. I glanced at the assassin who was to be my 
executioner, and I was indeed sorry for him. His lips were 
purple, his teeth chattered, he swayed back and forth, his 
hand returning mechanically to his forehead to wipe off the 
traces of blood, as he watched the reeking corpse stretched at 
his feet. His haggard eyes never left his victim. 

“ I was waiting for the moment when he would complete 
his task by killing me. I occupied a strange position with 
this man ; he had already failed to kill me to prove that he 
was white ; he was now going to assassinate me to show that 
he was a mulatto. 

“‘Well/ said Biassou, ‘that was good. I am satisfied 
with you, friend ! 7 He glanced at me, and added : ‘ I will 
spare you the other. Go. We will pronounce you a good 
brother, and we will appoint you executioner of our army/ 

“Just then a negro stepped from the ranks, bowing three 
times before Biassou, and crying out in his jargon, which I 
will translate that you may the more easily understand it, — 

“ ‘ And I, General ? 7 

“ ‘ You ! What do you mean ? 7 asked Biassou. 


116 


BUG-JABGAL. 


“ ‘ Are you going to do nothing for me, General ? ’ asked 
the negro. ‘You grant promotion to that dog of a white, 
who assassinates, and is recognized as one of us. Will you 
not do something for me, too, who am a good black ? 9 

“ This unexpected request seemed to confuse Biassou ; he 
leaned toward Rigaud, and the commander of the army of 
the Cayes answered him in French, — 

“‘We cannot satisfy him. Try to evade his request.’ 

“ ‘ Promote you ? ’ then said Biassou, to the good black ; ‘ I 
would ask for nothing better. What position do you want ? 9 

“ ‘ I want to be an officer.’ 

“‘An officer !’ repeated the generalissimo ; “well, what 
are your reasons for my giving you epaulets ? 9 

“ ‘ It was 1/ replied the black, with emphasis, ‘ it was I 
who set fire to the settlement of Lagoscette, in the early days 
of August. It was I who killed Monsieur Clement, the 
planter, and carried the head of the refiner on the point of 
a sword. I massacred ten white women and seven little chil- 
dren; one of them had even served as ensign for the brave 
blacks of Bouckmann. Later, I burned the families of four 
colonists in a room at Fort Galifet, which I bolted before 
burning. My father was killed on the rack at the Cape. My 
brother was hanged at Rocrou, and I myself just escaped 
being shot. I burned three coffee plantations, six indigo, 
and two hundred squares of sugar-cane. I killed my master, 
Monsier Noe, and his mother 9 — 

“ ‘ Spare us your various services/ said Rigaud, whose pre- 
tended gentleness hid a real cruelty, but who was ferocious 
Avithin bounds, and could not suffer the cynicism of bri- 
gandism. 

“ ‘ I could tell you of many others/ replied the negro 
proudly ; ‘ but probably you think that these are enough to 
give me the rank of officer , and for me to wear a gold epaulet 
on my coat, like our comrades over there.’ 

“ ‘ He pointed to the aides-de-camp, and the staff-officer of 
Biassou. The generalissimo seemed to consider for a moment, 
then he turned gravely to the negro : — 


BUG-JARGAL. 


117 


“ ‘ I should be glad to give you a rank ; I am satisfied with 
your services, but one other thing is necessary. Do you 
know Latin ? ’ 

“ The astonished brigand opened wide his eyes, and said, — 
“ ‘ I did not understand, General/ 

“ ‘ Well/ repeated Biassou quickly, ‘do you know Latin ? ’ 

“ ‘ Latin ? ’ asked the stupefied black. 

“ ‘ Yes, yes, yes, Latin ! Do you know Latin ? ’ continued 
the deceitful chief. Pointing to a standard on which was 
written the verse of the psalm, ‘ In exitu Israel de MgyptoJ 
he added, — 

“ ‘Tell us the meaning of those words/ 

“ The black, utterly amazed, remained mute and motionless, 
mechanically rubbing his hand against his trousers, while his 
frightened eyes went from the general to the flag, and back 
again. 

“‘Come, answer/ said Biassou impatiently. 

“The black scratched his head, opened and shut his lips 
several times, and finally these words escaped him, — 

“ ‘ I do not know what the General means/ 

“ Biassou’s face suddenly assumed an expression of anger 
and indignation. 

“ ‘ How is this, you miserable fool ? ’ he cried. ‘ What ! 
you would be an officer, and you do not know Latin ! ’ 

“ ‘ But, our General ’ — stammered the negro, trembling 
and embarrassed. 

‘ Silence ! ’ replied Biassou, whose anger seemed increasing. 
‘ I do not know why I do not have you shot at once for 
your presumption. Do you see, Rigaud, this pretty officer, 
who knows no Latin ? Well, stupid, since you do not under- 
stand what is written on this flag, I will explain it to you. 
“ In exitu” every soldier, “ Israel 99 who does not know Latin, 
“ de JEgypto” cannot be appointed officer. It is that, is it 
not, chaplain ? 9 

“ The little obi nodded affirmatively. Biassou continued, — 
“ ‘ This brother whom I have just appointed executioner of 
the army, and of whom you are jealous, knows Latin/ 


118 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ He turned to the newly elected executioner. 

“ ‘ Is it not so, friend ? Prove that you know more of it 
than he does. What does “ Dominus vobiscum 77 mean ? 7 

“ The wretched half-breed, arrested in his sad thoughts by 
this terrible voice, raised his head, and although his mind was 
still in a state of confusion on account of the cowardly deed 
he had just committed, terror forced him into obedience. 
There was something strange in the way the man strove to 
recall a bit of his college learning, in the midst of his thoughts 
of fright and remorse, and in the manner in which he uttered 
the childish explanation : ‘ “ Dominus vobiscum 77 means, 
“ May the Lord be with you ! 77 7 

“ ‘ “ Et cum sjoiritu tuo ! 77 7 solemnly added the mysterious 
obi. 

“ ‘ “ Amen,” 7 said Biassou. Then, resuming his impatient 
tone, and inserting into his feigned anger some phrases of 
poor Latin, in the fashion of Sgnanarelle, to convince the 
blacks of his knowledge : ‘ Return to the last rank ! 7 he cried 
to the ambitious negro. 1 Sursum cor da ! In future, do not 
try to rise to the rank of your chiefs who know Latin, orate, 
frates, or I shall have you hung ! Bonus, bona, bonum ! 7 

“ The negro, terrified and astonished, returned to the ranks, 
hanging his head in shame at the shouts of his comrades, 
who had been indignant at his poorly founded aspirations, 
and who were looking with admiration on their learned 
general. 

“ The scene had its burlesque side, which, however, in- 
spired me with a high idea of Biassou’s cleverness. The 
absurd method which he had used with such success, in order 
to disconcert the ambition, which is always so exacting among 
rebels, showed me at once the stupidity of the negroes and 
the tact of their chief. (Toussaint-POuverture used the same 
method, afterwards, with equal success.) 


BUG-JARGAL. 


119 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“ The hour had come for Biassou’ s almuerzo (breakfast). 
They placed before the mariscal de campo de su magestad 
catolica a large turtle-shell, in which smoked a kind of olla 
podrida , richly seasoned with lard, and in which the flesh of 
the turtle took the place of lamb ( camero ), and the sweet 
potato, the garganzas (chick-pease). A huge Caribbean cab- 
bage floated on the surface of this puchero. On either side of 
the turtle-shell, which served both as a saucepan and a soup- 
tureen, were two cups of cocoa bark full of dried raisins, of 
sandias (watermelons), yams, and figs ; it was the postre 
(dessert). Wheat bread and a leather bottle of tar-wine com- 
pleted the menu. Biassou drew from his pocket some cloves 
of garlic, and rubbed the bread with them ; then, without 
having the corpse which was still quivering before him 
removed, he began to eat, and asked Rigaud to join him. 
Biassou’s appetite was something astonishing. 

“ The obi did not share their meal. I saw that, like others 
of his profession, he never ate in public, wishing the negroes 
to think that he was supernatural, and able to live without 
food. 

“ As he breakfasted, Biassou ordered an aide-de-camp to 
commence the review, and the soldiers began to line up 
before the cave. The blacks of Morne-Rouge marched first ; 
they were about four thousand in number, divided into small, 
close companies, commanded by chiefs wearing trousers and 
scarlet belts, as I have before described. These blacks were 
almost all large and strong, and carried guns, axes, and 
swords. Many of them had bows, arrows, and assegais (Afri- 
can javelins) which they had made, not having other arms. 
They had no flag, and marched in silence, in a dazed sort of way. 


120 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ As they passed, Biassou leaned toward Rigaud, and said 
in French: ‘When will the grape-shot of Blanchelande and 
de Rouvray rid me of these bandits of Morne-Rouge ? I 
hate them ; they are almost all Congos ! And then, they do 
not know how to kill outside of battle ; they follow the 
example of their imbecile leader, their idol, Bug-Jargal, the 
young fool, who aims to be generous and magnanimous. Do 
you know him, Rigaud ? Well, I hope you never will. The 
whites have captured him, and they will rid me of him as 
they did of Bouckmann.’ 

“ ‘ Speaking of Bouckmann,’ said Rigaud, ‘ those are the 
yellow negroes of Macaya who are passing, and I see among 
them the messenger sent by Jean-Franqois to tell you of 
Bouckmann’s death. Do you know that this fellow could de- 
stroy the effect of all the obi’s prophecies regarding the death 
of this chief if he told that he was detained for half an hour 
at the outposts, and that he gave me his tidings before you 
had him brought here ? ’ 

“ ‘ Diabolo ! ’ exclaimed Biassou, ‘ you are right, my dear 
fellow ; the man’s mouth must be closed. Halt ! 9 

“ Then, raising his voice, he cried, — 

“ ‘ Macaya ! 9 

“The commander of the yellow negroes approached, and 
presented his blunderbuss unloaded, out of respect to his chief.. 

“Biassou continued: ‘Remove from your ranks that black 
over there, who should not be with you.’ 

“It was Jean-FranQois’ messenger. Macaya led him to 
the generalissimo , whose face immediately assumed the angry 
expression he knew so well how to feign. 

“ ‘ Who are you ? ’ he asked of the frightened negro. 

“ ‘ Our General, I am a black.’ 

“ ‘ Caramba ! I can easily see that. But what is your name ? ’ 

“‘My nickname is Vavelan; my blessed patron is Saint 
Sabas, deacon and martyr, whose festival comes twenty days 
before Christmas.’ 

“ Biassou interrupted him. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


121 


“ ‘ How dare you march in a parade in the midst of these 
shining Spaniards and white shoulder-belts with your un- 
sheathed sword, your torn trousers, and your feet covered 
with mud ? J 

“ ‘ Our General/ the black answered, ( it is not my fault. 
I was ordered by the great admiral, Jean-Fran^ois, to bring 
you the news of the death of Bouckmann, the chief of the 
yellow English soldiers ; and if my clothes are torn and my 
feet muddy, it is from having run until I was out of breath 
to reach you as soon as possible, but I was detained in the 
camp, and* — 

“ Biassou scowled. 

“‘No matter about that, gavacho ! I am talking about 
your audacity in taking part in the parade, when you are so 
untidy looking. Commit your soul to Saint Sabas, deacon 
and martyr, your patron, and go and be shot.’ 

“ Here, again, I saw another proof of Biassou’s moral power 
over the rebels. The unfortunate fellow, thus ordered to have 
himself shot, did not utter a word; he lowered his head, 
crossed his arms on his breast, bowed three times before his 
merciless judge, and after kneeling before the obi, who gave 
him an abridged absolution, he left the cave. A few moments 
after a gun shot told Biassou that the negro had obeyed him, 
and had begun to live. 

“ The chief, no longer anxious, turned to Rigaud, his eyes 
sparkling with pleasure, and gave a chuckle of triumph which 
seemed to say, ‘ Admire me ! ’ 1 

1 Toussaint-POuverture, who was a pupil in Biassou’s school, and who, 
although no more skilful, was at least far from equalling him in perfidy 
and cruelty, showed the same power over negro fanatics. This chief, 
sprung, they say, from a royal African race, had, like Biassou, a rough 
education, to which he added genius. He had erected a sort of republican 
throne at San Domingo at the time when Bonaparte was establishing in 
France a monarchy upon his victories. Toussaint felt a naive admiration 
for the First Consul; hut the latter considered him only a troublesome 
parody of his fortunes, and always scorned corresponding with the free 
slave who dared to write ; “To the first among the whites, from the first 
among the blacks.” 


122 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

“ The review continued. The army, whose disorder a few 
hours previous had been such a strange sight, was no less 
peculiar on parade. There were negroes completely naked, 
carrying clubs, tomahawks, and axes, marching like savages 
to the music of the goat-horn; companies of mulattoes, in 
Spanish or English uniforms, well-armed, well-disciplined, 
keeping time to tambourines ; crowds of negresses, little ne- 
groes, laden with pitchforks and spits ; fellows bending be- 
neath their heavy guns, without cock or barrel ; griotes with 
their varied decorations ; griots grinning and twisting about 
frightfully, and shouting incoherent airs to the guitar, the 
tamtam, and the balafo. This strange processsion from 
time to time was interspersed with mixed detachments of 
griffes, marabouts , sacatras, mameloues, quarterons, free half- 
breeds, and wandering crowds of yellow blacks, who marched 
proudly with shining carbines and loaded cabrouets, or a 
gun stolen from the whites, which was less of an arm than 
a trophy for them, shouting the battle-hymns of the camp of 
Grand-Pre and Oua-Nasse. Above the sea of heads, floated 
flags of every color and design, — white, red, tricolored, fleur- 
de-lis r, — with the liberty-cap and the words, ‘ Death to priests 
and aristocrats ! Long live religion ! Liberty ! Equality ! 
Long live the King ! Down with the metropolis ! Long live 
Spain ! No more tyrants ! ’ etc. It was all a frightful con- 
fusion, which showed that the rebel force was only a mass of 
means without end, and that in this army there was no less 
disorder among the ideas than among the men. 

“As they passed before the cave, the soldiers lowered 
their flags, and Biassou saluted them. To each company he 
spoke a word of praise or censure, which was received with a, 
fanatical respect and a sort of superstitious fear. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


123 


“ Finally the wave of barbarians and savages passed. The 
crowd of brigands, which at first had interested me, began to 
grow wearisome. Daylight was fading; and as the last line 
passed, the sun threw one dying crimson ray upon the granite 
front of the mountains of the east. 


124 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

“ Biassou grew pensive. When the review was over, after 
his last orders had been given, and the rebels had returned to 
their ajoupas, he spoke to me : — 

“ < Young man, you may judge at your ease of my genius 
and power. The time has come when you must give an 
account of it to Leogri.’ 

“ < It is not my fault that it has not come sooner/ I coldly 
replied. 

“ 6 That is true/ replied Biassou. He paused an instant as 
though to note the effect of what he was about to say : ‘ But 
it is your fault if it comes now.’ 

“ ‘ What do you mean ? ’ I cried, astonished. 

“ ‘ Yes/ continued Biassou, ‘ your life depends on yourself ; 
you can save it if you wish.’ 

“ This act of clemency, probably Biassou’s first and last, 
was a great surprise to me. The obi too, as amazed as I, 
slipped down from the seat he had so long been occupying, in 
an attitude of ecstasy, like Hindoo fakirs. Confronting the 
general, he exclaimed angrily : — 

“ ‘ Que dice el exelentissimo senor mariscal de campo ? (‘ What 
does the most excellent field-marshal say ? ’ ) Does he re- 
member his promise ? Neither he nor the bon Giu can now 
dispose of this man’s life ; it belongs to me.’ 

“ Again, at the sound of his angry voice, it seemed to me 
that I knew the wretched little fellow ; but the mbment 
passed, and no remembrance of who he was came to me. 

“ Biassou rose calmly, spoke to the obi aside, pointed to the 
black flag to which I have referred, and after a moment or 
two the sorcerer nodded his head, as though consenting. 
Then they both resumed their places. 


BUG-JABGAL. 


125 


“ 1 Listen to me/ then said the generalissimo , taking from 
his coat-pocket the other despatch from Jean-Franqois ; ‘we 
are in trouble ; Bouckmann has just perished in a combat. 
The whites have killed two thousand rebels in the district of 
Cul-de-Sac. The colonists are continuing to strengthen them- 
selves by erecting military posts on the plain. Through our 
own fault we have lost the opportunity of taking the Cape; 
so good a chance will not occur soon again. On the east 
shore, the principal road is obstructed by a river ; the whites, 
in order to defend it, have placed a battery on some bridges 
of boats, and have pitched two small camps on each shore. 
To the south there is a wide road across the mountains, 
called the Haut-du-Cap ; they have covered this with soldiers 
and cannon. The position is equally fortified on the landside 
by a stockade at which all the inhabitants have worked, and 
they have added chevaux-de-frise. The Cape is under cover 
of our arms. Our ambuscade at the passes of Dompte- 
Mulatre has failed. To all this is added the fever of Siam, 
which depopulates the camp of Jean-Fran^ois. On this ac- 
count the grand-admiral of France [we have already said that 
Jean-Franqois assumed this title] is of the opinion, and we 
share it, that it would be well to make a treaty with Governor 
Blanchelande and the Colonial Assembly. Here is the letter 
that we are to send to the Assembly on this subject; listen: — 

“ ‘ To the Deputies : 

Great troubles have come upon this rich and important colony ; 
we have been hemmed in, and nothing more remains for us to say in 
our own justification. Some day you will grant us our just dues. We 
ought to be included in the general amnesty which King Louis XYI. 
has pronounced for all alike. 

Accordingly, as the King of Spain is a good king, and treats us 
well, and shows his appreciation , we shall continue to serve him zeal- 
ously and devotedly. 

We see by the law of Sept. 2S, 1791, that the National Assembly 
and the king allow you to pronounce definitely upon the condition of 
the slaves, and the political condition of the colored race. We shall 
uphold the decrees of the National Assembly and yours, clothed in the 
required formalities, to our last drop of blood. It would even be inter- 


126 


BUG-JARGAL. 


esting for you to declare , by an official resolution of the general, that 
your intention is to look after the condition of the slaves. Knowing 
that they are the object of your care, from their chiefs, through whom 
you will accomplish this work, they would be satisfied ; and the peace 
that is interrupted would be restored in a short time. 

But do not expect, Messrs. Deputies, that we would consent to take 
up arms on account of the wishes of the revolutionary assemblies. We 
are the subjects of three kings, the King of Congo, born master of 
all the blacks ; the King of France, who represents our fathers ; and 
the King of Spain, who represents our mothers. These three kings are 
descendants of those who, led by a star, have been worshipped as the 
Man-God. If we serve the Assemblies, we should perhaps be led into 
fighting against our brothers, the subjects of these three kings, to 
whom we have promised fealty. 

And then, we do not know what is understood by the will of 
the nation, seeing that since the people reigned, we have carried out 
only that of the king. The prince of France loves us, the prince of 
Spain never ceases to help us. We help them, they help us; it is the 
cause of humanity. And besides, these kings would fail us, unless we 
should quickly enthrone a king. 

Such are our intentions, by means of which we will consent to make 
peace. 

(Signed) 

Jean-Fran^ois, General. 

Biassou, Field-Marshal. 

Desprez, Manzeau, 

Toussaint, Aubert, 

Commissioners ad hoc.' ” 

(This letter, absurdly characteristic, was really sent to the 
Assembly.) 

“ ‘ You see/ added Biassou, after reading this specimen of 
negro diplomacy, each word of which is fixed in my memory, 
‘ you see that we are mild. But this is what I want of you. 
Neither Jean-Fran^ois nor I have been educated in the schools 
of the whites, where English is taught. We know how to 
fight, but we cannot write. But we do not wish to have any- 
thing in our letter to the Assembly which can excite the 
proud hurlerias of our old masters. You seem to know this 
light art of which we are ignorant. Correct the mistakes in 


BUG-JARGAL. 


127 


our despatch which will make the whites laugh, and for this 
I will grant you your life.” 

“ In this role of corrector-of-the-mistakes-of-Biassou’s-diplo- 
matic-orthography, there was something so revolting to my 
pride that I did not hesitate an instant. Besides, of what 
use was my life ? I refused his offer. 

“ He seemed surprised. 

“ ‘ What ! ’ he cried, ‘ would you rather die than correct 
a few strokes of a pen on a bit of parchment ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes/ I replied. 

“ My decision seemed to puzzle him. After an instant’s 
thought, he said : — 

“ ( Listen attentively, young fool ; I am less obstinate than 
you. I will give you until to-morrow evening to decide if 
you will obey me or not ; to-morrow, at set of sun, you shall 
return to me. Consider well if you will satisfy my command. 
Adieu ; let night bring good counsel to you. You well know 
that with us death is not merely death.’ 

“ The meaning of these last words, which were accompanied 
by a frightful laugh, was not hard to understand; and the 
tortures that Biassou was accustomed to invent for his vie- 
tims completed their meaning. 

“ 1 Candi, remove the prisoner,’ continued Biassou ; ( give 
him into the custody of the blacks of Morne-Rouge. I wish 
him to live one more round of the sun, and my other soldiers 
perhaps would not have the patience to wait another twenty- 
four hours.’ 

“The mulatto Candi, the chief of his company, ordered 
my hands tied behind me. A soldier then seized the end of 
the rope, and we left the cave. 


128 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ When an unexpected shock and trouble and misery come 
all at once into the midst of a happy and quiet life, the sud- 
den blow awakens the soul from its repose of calmness and 
joy. Trouble w r hich comes in this way does not seem a 
reality, but only a dream. To one who has always been 
happy, the first stage of despair- is stupor. Sudden misfor- 
tune is like a torpedo ; it shakes, but makes one torpid, and 
the startling light that it suddenly throws before our eyes is 
not daylight. Men, objects, facts, pass before us in fantastic 
shapes, and move as in a dream. Everything on the horizon 
of our life is changed, the atmosphere and the perspective ; 
but it takes a long time for our eyes to lose that shining pic- 
ture of past happiness which continually interposes between 
them and the dark present, changing the color, and giving 
something indescribably unreal to reality. Then everything 
real seems impossible and absurd ; we scarcely believe in the 
fact of our own existence, because finding nothing around us 
which makes up our life, we do not understand how it all 
could disappear without dragging us with it, and why we 
alone remain of all our past life. If this confused condition 
of the soul continue for long, it disarranges the equilibrium 
of thought and becomes madness, perhaps a happy state, in 
which life is no longer anything but a vision to the unfortu- 
nate one, and he himself its phantom. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


129 


CHAPTER XL. 

“ I do not know, gentlemen, why I say all this to you. 
They are not ideas that can be understood or explained. One 
must feel them in order to comprehend them. I have felt 
them. My mind was in this state when Biassou’s guards 
gave me to the negroes of Morne-Rouge. It seemed to me 
that they were phantoms, giving me to phantoms ; and without 
offering any resistance, I let myself be tied to the trunk of a 
tree. They brought me some boiled potatoes, which I ate 
with that sort of mechanical instinct which the goodness of 
God gives man in the midst of mental trouble. 

“ Night had fallen; my guardians withdrew to their ajou- 
pas , leaving only six with me. They were sitting or lying 
about a great fire which they had lighted in order to keep 
off the cold of the night. In a few moments they were all 
sleeping soundly. 

“ My physical condition augmented the vague reveries 
which were wandering through my brain. I recalled those 
happy days, a few weeks before, which I had passed by 
Marie’s side, without a thought for the future, save one 
of eternal happiness. I compared them to the day which 
had just ended, during which many and strange events had 
passed before my eyes, as though to make *me doubt their re- 
ality ; during which my life had been condemned three times, 
and not saved even now. I meditated upon my future, which 
consisted only of the next day, and which presented nothing 
certain but misery, and the death which fortunately would 
follow. It seemed as though I were struggling against a 
frightful nightmare. I asked myself if it were possible that 
all which had happened was really over, — that my surround- 
ings were the camp of the blood-thirsty Biassou ; that Marie 


130 


BUG-JABGAL. 


was lost to me forever ; that this captive, guarded by six 
barbarians, bound and doomed to certain death, this captive 
whom I saw in the lurid light of the fire, was indeed myself. 
Then, in spite of my every effort to thrust from me a still more 
despairing thought, my mind returned to Marie. I asked my- 
self, in agony, what could have been her fate ; I tightened my 
ropes in my struggles to fly to her aid, hoping every instant 
that the horrible dream would vanish, and that God would not 
permit the horrors, of which I dared not think, to come to 
the angel whom he had given me for my wife. This sad 
train of thought always brought Pierrot before me, and my 
fury against him made me almost insane ; the veins in my 
forehead seemed ready to burst ; I hated myself, I cursed 
myself, I despised myself, for having for one instant united 
my friendship for Pierrot and my love for Marie ; and with- 
out trying to explain to myself what motive he could have 
had for hurling himself into the Grande-River, I wept at not 
having killed him. He was dead ; I was about to die ; and 
my only regret was my unsatisfied vengeance. 

“ All these thoughts were surging through my mind in the 
midst of a doze, into which exhaustion had thrown me. I do 
not know how much time passed ; but suddenly I was roused 
by the sound of a man’s voice singing faintly, but distinctly, 
l Yo que soy contrabandist a.’ I opened my eyes with a start; 
it was night, the negroes were asleep ; the fire was dying out. 
I heard nothing more ; I thought that the voice was a dream, 
and my heavy eyelids closed again. Then I opened them 
like a flash ; for the voice was nearer, and was singing in sad 
tones this verse of a Spanish romance : — 

‘En los campos de Ocana 
Prisionero cai 
Me llevan a Cotadilla 
Desdichado fui ; ’ 

which, translated, runs something like this : — - 

‘ In the fields of Ocana, 

Sad captive I lay, 

Then to Cotadilla, 

They bore me away ! ’ 


BUG-JARGAL. 


131 


“ This time it was no longer a dream. It was the voice of 
Pierrot. Again it rose in the silent night, and I heard the 
well-known strain, ( Yo que soy contrabandista .’ A dog 
bounded madly up to me ; it was Rask. I raised my eyes. A 
black stood before me, and a flicker from the dying fire 
showed me his colossal figure by the side of the dog; it was 
Pierrot. Vengeance made me mad ; surprise made me mute 
and immovable. I was not sleeping, and the dead had re- 
turned ! It- was not a dream, but an apparition. I turned 
away in horror. Then his head fell forward on his breast. 

“ ‘ Brother,’ he murmured, in a low tone, “ You promised 
never to doubt me when you heard me singing that air. 
Brother, have you forgotten your promise ? ’ 

11 Anger gave me words. 

“ ‘ Monster ! 9 I cried, 1 1 see you again, do I ? Hangman, 
murderer of my uncle, betrayer of Marie, do you dare to call 
me brother ? Stop, do not come near me ! 9 

“ I forgot that I was tied so that I could not move. Invol- 
untarily my eyes sought my sword. 

“ He guessed my intention. His manner was sad and 
gentle. 

“‘No,’ said he, ‘I will not come near you. You are un- 
happy, and I pity you; but you do not pity me, although I 
am more wretched than you.’ 

“ I shrugged my shoulders. He understood the gesture, 
and looked at me in a dreamy way. 

“ ‘ Yes, you have lost much ; but, believe me, I have lost 
more.’ 

“ Our voices had wakened my six guardians. Seeing a 
stranger, they sprang up, and seized their arms ; but as soon 
as they recognized Pierrot, they gave a cry of joyful surprise, 
and fell on their knees, their foreheads touching the ground. 

“ But nothing at the moment made any impression on me, — 
neither the respect of the negroes for Pierrot, nor the way in 
which Rask rubbed first against his master, then against me, 
watching me anxiously, as though wondering at my cold wel- 


132 


BUG-JARGAL. 


come. I was entirely mastered by my rage, I was powerless 
in the bands which held me. 

“ i Oh ! ’ I cried at last, writhing in fury beneath the cords 
which bound me, ‘ Oh ! how wretched I am ! I regretted 
that the man had done himself justice ; I believed him dead, 
and I was bemoaning my vengeance. And now there he 
stands, and he has just defied me ; he is here, living, before 
me, and I cannot have the joy of killing him ! Oh ! who 
will unloose these wretched cords ? ’ 

“ Pierrot turned to the negroes, who were still kneeling 
before him. 

“ 1 Comrades,’ said he, 1 unbind the prisoner ! ’ 


BUG-JARGAL. 


133 


CHAPTER XLI. 

“ His command was obeyed instantly. My six guardians 
hastily cut the cords which bound me, and I stood upon my 
feet, free, but I did not move ; surprise kept me silent. 

“ i That is not all/ then said Pierrot. Seizing the dagger 
from one of his negroes, he handed it to me, saying, ‘ You 
may have satisfaction now. God does not wish me to argue 
with you your right to kill me ! You have saved my life 
three times ; it is yours now ; strike if you will/ There was 
in his voice neither bitterness nor reproach, only sadness and 
resignation. 

“ This unexpected opening to my vengeance, given by one 
whom I longed to meet, was strange and sudden. I felt that 
all my hatred for Pierrot, all my love for Marie, was not 
enough to make me an assassin ; and, whatever the appearances, 
a voice cried out from my innermost heart that an enemy 
and a culprit would not stand thus before vengeance and pun- 
ishment. Must I tell you ? There was something in the 
imperious bearing of this strange being that conquered me in 
spite of myself. I pushed away the dagger. 

Wretched man!’ I said, ‘I should like to kill you in a 
fight, but I will not assassinate you. Defend yourself/ 

“ < Defend myself ! ? cried he, astonished, ‘ against whom ? ’ 
“ ‘ Against me ! 9 

“ He made a gesture of amazement. 

“ ‘ Against you ? This is the only thing in which I cannot 
obey you. Do you see Rask ? I could easily choke him ; he 
would submit to it. But I should not know how to make him 
fight with me : he would not understand me. I do not under- 
stand you ; I am like Rask/ 

“ After a moment he added, — 


134 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ ‘ I see hatred in your eyes, as once you saw it in mine. I 
know that you have suffered misfortune indeed. Your uncle 
has been murdered, your plantations burned, your friends 
killed, your houses sacked, your heritage devastated ; but it 
was not I who did it, but mine. Listen ; I told you once that 
your people had done me great injury; you replied that it 
was not you ; what have I done ? ’ 

“ His face lighted up ; he expected me to fall into his arms, 
but I looked at him wildly. 

“ ‘ You deny all that your people have done to me/ said he 
in an angry tone, ‘ and you do not mention what you yourself 
have done ! Well ? ’ he asked. 

“ I strode up to him, and my voice was like thunder. 

“ i Where is Marie ? What have you done with Marie ? ’ 

“A shadow crossed his face; for a moment he seemed 
embarrassed. Then — 

“ ‘ Maria ! 9 he replied. ‘ Yes, you are right. But we have 
too many listeners here.* 

“His embarrassment, and the words, ‘ You are right / 
roused a hell in my heart. I thought he was trying to 
evade my question. He looked at me with an open face, say- 
ing in a tone of deep emotion, — 

“ ‘ Do not suspect me, I implore you. I will tell you about 
this in another place. Come, love me as I love you, in con- 
fidence.’ He paused an instant to observe the effect of his 
words. Then he added softly, — 

“ ‘ May I call you brother ? 9 

“ But my jealous anger had resumed all its violence ; and 
the tender words, which sounded hypocritical, only exaspe- 
rated me. 

“ ‘ How dare you remind me of that time/ I cried, ‘ you 
ungrateful wretch ! 9 

“ He interrupted me. Great tears shone in his eyes. 

“ ‘ It is not I who am ungrateful ! 9 

“ ‘ Well, speak/ I cried. ‘ What have you done with 
Marie ? 9 


BUG-JARGAL. 


135 


“ ‘ In another place, another place ! ’ he replied. ‘ Here we 
cannot hear ourselves speak. Besides, you would not believe 
me were I to give you my word of honor, and time flies. It 
is already daylight, and I must get you away from here. 
Listen ; all is over, since you doubt me, and you would do 
well to kill me. But wait a while before carrying out what 
you term your vengeance ; I must first set you free. Come, 
let us find Biassou.’ 

“ His words and manner seemed to hide a mystery which I 
could not fathom. In spite of my feeling against the man, 
his voice always touched some chord in my heart. When I 
heard it, a strange power held me, and now I found myself 
hesitating between vengeance and pity, defiance and a blind 
submission. Finally I followed him. 


136 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

We left the negro-quarter of Morne-Rouge. It was strange 
to be walking unguarded across the barbarians’ fields, where 
the evening before every brigand seemed thirsting for my 
blood. Now, far from trying to stop us, the blacks and the 
mulattoes bowed down before us with exclamations of sur- 
prise, joy, and respect. I did not know what position Pierrot 
held in the rebel army ; but I remembered the power he had 
shown over his companions, and I easily understood the influ- 
ence he seemed now to have among the rebels. 

“ When we reached the row of guards in front of Biassou’ s 
cave, their commander, the mulatto Candi, advanced, calling 
to us to know how we dared come so near to the general’s 
cave; but when he saw that it was Pierrot, he quickly re- 
moved his gold embroidered moutera, and, as though terrified 
at his boldness, he bowed to the ground, and led us to Biassou, 
stammering excuses, to which Pierrot paid no attention ex- 
cept by a scornful gesture. 

“ The respect of the mere negro soldiers for Pierrot had 
not surprised me ; but to see Candi, one of their head officers, 
bowing down before my uncle’s slave, made me begin to 
wonder who the man was whose authority seemed so great; 
and it was a stranger thing still when I saw the general- 
issimo, who was alone quietly eating a calalou, hastily rise at 
sight of Pierrot, and hiding his anxious surprise and violent 
anger beneath a deeply respectful manner, bow humbly before 
his comrade, and offer him his own mahogany throne. Pierrot 
declined it. 

“‘Jean Biassou,’ said he, ‘I do not come to take your 
place, but merely to ask a favor.’ 

“ ‘ Altezaf replied Biassou, bowing again, ‘ you know that 


BUG-JARGAL. 


187 


you can do as you please with everything around Jean Biassou, 
with all that belongs to him, with Jean Biassou himself/ 

“ The title of alteza , equivalent to highness or majesty , 
thus applied to Pierrot, increased my surprise still more. 

“ ‘ I am not going to ask much/ quickly replied Pierrot ; 
‘ I ask only for the life and the liberty of this prisoner/ 

“ He pointed to me. Biassou seemed stunned for an in- 
stant ; but he hesitated only for a moment. 

“ ‘ You distress your slave, Alteza ; you demand of him 
much more than he can grant you, to his great regret. This 
prisoner does not belong to Jean Biassou, nor has Jean Bias- 
sou anything to do with him/ 

“ ‘ What do you mean ? 9 asked Pierrot severely. ‘ To 
whom does he belong ? Is there other power here than 
yours ? 9 

“ ‘ Alas, yes, Alteza ! 9 

“ ‘ Whose ? 9 

“ ‘ That of my army/ 

“The wheedling, crafty manner in which Biassou evaded 
the frank, haughty questions of Pierrot showed that he was 
determined to give only the respect which he was obliged 
to show him. 

“ ‘ Your army ! 9 cried Pierrot ; ‘ and do you not command 
that ? 9 

“ Biassou, preserving his advantage, without however for- 
getting his respectful manner, replied with an air of sin- 
cerity, — 

“ ‘ Does su Alteza think that one really commands men 
who revolt only in order to disobey ? 9 

« I valued my life too highly to speak ; but what I had seen 
on the previous night of Biassou’s unlimited authority over 
his soldiers showed me that he was lying, and I could have 
said so. Pierrot replied, — 

“‘Well, if you cannot command your army, if your sol- 
diers are your commanders, what reason can they have for 
hating this prisoner ? 7 


138 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ 1 Bouckmann has just been killed by the government 
troops/ said Biassou, making his bold and sneering features 
assume a sad expression. ‘My men have sworn vengeance 
upon this white for the death of the commander of the yellow 
negroes of Jamaica; they want to show trophy for trophy, 
and they ask for the head of this young officer to counter- 
balance Bouckmann’s in the scales where the bon Giu weighs 
both sides.’ 

“ ‘ How could you listen to such a horrible retaliation ? 9 
asked Pierrot. ‘Hear me, Jean Biassou; it is such cruelty 
as this which is the reason of our losing our just cause. I 
have been a prisoner in the camp of the whites, from whom 
I have succeeded in escaping, and I had not heard of Bouck- 
mann’s death, which you mention. But it is Heaven’s just 
punishment for his crimes. I will tell you something else ; 
Jeannot, the very commander of the blacks who served as a 
guide to the whites to entrap them into the ambuscade of 
Dompte-Mulatre, — Jeannot, too, has just died. Do not in- 
terrupt me, Biassou ! You know that he rivalled Bouckmann 
and you in cruelty ; but note this : it was not Heaven, it was 
not the whites, who killed him, but Jean-Franqois himself 
who committed this act of justice.’ 

“ Biassou, who was listening respectfully, gave a cry of sur- 
prise. Just then Rigaud entered, bowed humbly to Pierrot, 
and whispered something to the generalissimo. Without, a 
tumult was heard in the camp. Pierrot continued, — 

Yes, Jean-Franqois, whose only fault is his fatal luxury, 
and the absurd equipage, with its six horses, in which he 
drives daily from his camp to mass to the curate of the 
Grande-River, has avenged Jeannot’s cruelty. In spite of 
the cowardly prayers of the brigand, and although at the last 
moment he clung to the vicar of Marmelade, begging for 
pardon in such terror that they had to take him away by 
force, the wretch was shot yesterday, at the foot of the very 
tree which is covered with the iron hooks on which he had 
been in the habit of hanging his victims alive. Biassou, 


BUG-JABGAL. 


139 


think of this ! Why commit these murders which drive the 
whites to madness ? Why use jugglery to excite the fury 
of our wretched comrades, who are already incensed ’? At 
Trou-Coffi there is a mulatto charlatan named Bomaine-la- 
Prophetesse, who makes fanatics of an army of blacks. He 
violates the Holy Mass ; he persuades them that he is in com- 
munication with the Holy Virgin, whose oracles he pretends 
to hear in the tabernacle; and he incites his comrades to 
murder and pillage in the name of Mary ! ’ 

“ There was perhaps an accent even more gentle than that 
of veneration with which Pierrot uttered this name. I do 
not know why, but it offended and irritated me. 

“ ‘ Well/ continued the slave, ‘ there is in your camp 
some obi or juggler like this Bomaine-la-Prophetesse ! I 
know that with an army to command, which is made up of 
men from every country, of every family, of every color, you 
need some common bond ; but can you not find it somewhere 
besides in a ferocious fanaticism and absurd superstitions ? 
Believe me, Biassou, the whites are less cruel than are we. I 
have seen planters protect their slaves ; I know that in the 
case of many, it was not in order to save a life, but to win 
money ; but at least their interest brings out a virtue. To be 
no less kind than they, is also to our interest. Will our 
cause be holier or more just when we shall have killed the 
women, murdered the children, tortured the old men, and 
burned the colonists in their homes ? Yet such are our daily 
acts. Tell me, Biassou, must our every footstep always be 
marked by a line of blood or fire ? ’ 

“ ‘ He was silent. His look, the accent of his voice, gave to 
his words a power of conviction and authority impossible to 
describe. Like a fox seized by a lion, the side glance of 
Biassou seemed looking for some means by which he could 
escape the influence. While he was thus meditating, the 
commander of the army of Cayes, the same Bigaud who on 
the previous evening had looked so calmly upon the horrors 
about him, appeared as though indignant at the outrages 


140 


BUG-JARGAL. 


which Pierrot had described, and cried out with hypocritical 
consternation : — 

“ 1 But, good Lord ! What can one do with an infuriated 
mob ? * 


BUG-JABGAL. 


141 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

“The tumult without seemed increasing. Biassou was 
becoming restless. I afterwards learned that the clamor 
came from the negroes of Morne-Rouge, who had rushed from 
the camp to tell of the return of my liberator, and to announce 
their intention to aid him in whatever cause he had come to 
argue with Biassou. Rigaud had just informed the general- 
issimo of this fact ; and it was the fear of a fatal outbreak 
which drove the deceitful commander to yield to Pierrot’s 
wishes. 

“ 1 Altezaf said he in an angry tone, 1 if we are hard on the 
whites, you are hard on us. You are wrong in accusing me 
of the violence of the torrent; it leads me on. But que po- 
dria hacer ahora (what can I do) that will please you ? ’ 

“ ‘ I have already told you, Senor Biassou,’ replied Pierrot ; 
‘ let me take away this prisoner.’ 

“ Biassou thought for a moment, and then said, looking as 
honest as he could : — 

“ ‘ Well, Alteza, I will prove to you my desire to please 
you. Let me only say two words in secret to the prisoner; 
he will then be free to follow you.’ 

“ ‘ Most certainly you may,’ replied Pierrot. 

“And his face, which up to then had been proud and 
gloomy, shone with a great joy. He stepped back a few feet. 

“ Biassou took me to a corner of the cave, and said, in a low 
voice : — 

“ ‘ I will grant you your life only on one condition ; you 
know it, will you consent ? ’ He showed me the despatch 
from Jean-FranQois. To consent seemed to me cowardly. 

“ ‘ No ! ’ I cried. 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ replied he, chuckling. ‘ Always so firm ! You 


142 


B UG—JABGAL. 


have great confidence in your protector, have you not ? Do 
you know who he is ? ’ 

“ 1 Yes/ I answered quickly ; ‘ he is a monster like your- 
self, only even more hypocritical.’ 

“ He stepped back in astonishment, and looking into my 
eyes to see if I was serious, he asked, — 

u ( What ! Do you really not know him ? ’ I answered 
scornfully, — 

“ ‘ I know that he was my uncle’s slave, and that he is 
named Pierrot.’ Biassou began to chuckle. 

“ ‘ Ha ! ha! This is strange! He asks for your life and 
your freedom, and you call him “ a monster ” like myself ! ’ 

“ 1 What difference does it make ? ’ I replied. ‘ If I were 
to have a moment of liberty, it would not be to ask him for 
my life, but for his ! ’ 

“ ‘ What is that ? ’ asked Biassou. ‘ You seem to mean 
what you say, and I do not think you would play with 
your life. There is something in all this which I do not 
understand. You are protected by a man whom you hate ; 
he pleads for your life, and you desire his death ! Well, 
it’s all the same to me. You wish a moment of liberty ; 
this is the only favor I can grant you. I will allow you to 
follow him ; only first give me your word of honor to return 
to me two hours before the set of the sun. You are French, 
are you not ? ’ 

“ Must I tell you, gentlemen ? Life was a burden to me ; 
I scorned to take it from Pierrot, who seemed to me to 
deserve my hatred ; I do not know if the idea entered my 
mind that Biassou, who did not easily give up his booty, 
would never consent to my freedom ; I really wanted only a 
few hours in order that, before dying, I might find out the fate 
of my beloved Marie, and my own. The promise that Biassou 
asked of me (he trusted in the honor of a Frenchman) was an 
easy and certain means of gaining a whole day ; I gave my 
word. Then the general approached Pierrot. 

“ ‘ AltezaJ said he obsequiously, 1 the white prisoner is at 


BUG-JARGAL. 


143 


your command ; you may take him away ; he is free to accom- 
pany you.’ I never before had seen such joy in Pierrot’s 
eyes. 

“ ‘ Thanks, Biassou ! ’ he cried, holding out his hand. 
‘ Thanks ! You have done me a service which will forever 
make me indebted to you ! Continue to dispose of my 
brothers of Morne-Rouge until my return.’ 

“ He turned to me. 

“ ‘ Since you are free,’ said he, ‘ come ! ’ 

“ And he led me out in strange haste. 

“ Biassou looked at us in amazement, which even his dem- 
onstrations of respect at Pierrot’s departure did not hide. 


144 


BUG-JARGAL 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

“ I longed to be alone with Pierrot. His embarrassment 
when I asked him about Marie, the impudent tenderness with 
which he dared to utter her name, had augmented the feelings 
of rage and jealousy which had risen in my heart when I 
saw him carrying her away from the burning 4 Fort Galifet, 
her whom I had scarcely called wife. Of what use, after 
that, were the generous reproaches which he had uttered in 
my presence to the bloodthirsty Biassou, or the care he took 
to save my life, or the power of his every word and action ? 
What did I care about the mystery which seemed to be about 
him ; which made him appear living before me, when I 
thought I had helped to bring about his death ; which had 
shown him to me a captive among the whites, when I had 
seen him jump into the Grande-River ; which changed the 
slave into a monarch, and set the prisoner free ? Of all 
these incomprehensible facts, the only one which I clearly 
understood was his odious rapture over Marie ; this was an 
outrage to avenge, a crime to punish. The strange scenes 
which had already taken place, scarcely sufficed to make me 
suspend judgment, and I waited impatiently for the moment 
when I could force my rival to explain. At last that moment 
arrived. 

“ We had passed the triple lines of blacks who bowed down 
before us, crying out in surprise : ‘ Miraculo ! Ya no esta pri- 
sionero ! ’ (‘ A miracle ! he is not longer a prisoner ! ’) I do 

not know if they referred to me or to Pierrot. We crossed 
the final lines of the camp; Biassou’s last scouts were lost 
behind the trees and rocks. Rask, joyous, was in advance of 
us, every now and then running back to us ; Pierrot was 
walking quickly, but I suddenly stopped him. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


145 


“ ‘ Listen/ I said ; ‘ it is useless to go farther. The ears 
you fear cannot hear us now ; tell me, what have you done 
with Marie ? ’ 

“ My concentrated emotion made me gasp. He looked at 
me with a gentle expression. 

“ 1 Always the same question ! ’ he replied. 

“ ‘ Yes, always ! * I cried, furious, 1 always ! I will ask you 
this question until your last breath. Where is Marie ? ’ 

“ ‘ Can nothing make you cease doubting me ? You will 
soon know.’ 

“ ‘ Soon, monster ! 9 I cried. ‘ It is now that I would know. 
Where is Marie ? Where is Marie ? Do you hear ? An- 
swer, or exchange your life for mine. Defend yourself ! 9 

“ ‘ I have already told you/ he answered sadly, 1 that this 
cannot be. The torrent does not fight against its source ; my 
life, which you have thrice saved, cannot struggle against 
yours. I wish it were otherwise ; but it would still be im- 
possible, for we have but one dagger between us.’ 

“ As he spoke, he drew the weapoli from his belt and 
handed it to me. 

“ ‘ Take it/ said he. 

“ I was beside myself with rage. I seized the dagger, and 
raised it over his breast. He did not think of saving him- 
self. 

“ ‘ Wretch,’ I cried, 1 do not force me to become an assassin. 
I will plunge this knife into your very soul if you do not 
tell me this instant where my wife is.’ 

“He replied calmly, — 

“ ‘ You are master. But I beg you with clasped hands to 
let me live one more hour, and to follow me. You doubt him 
who owes you three lives, him whom you called brother ; but 
listen, if in one hour you still doubt, you will be free to kill 
me. It will be time enough then. You see that I do not 
wish to resist; I beg you even in the name of Maria ’ — he 
added sadly, f of your wife — just one hour ; and I ask it, 
not for myself, but for you ! ’ 


146 


BUG-JABGAL. 


“ His voice was unspeakably sad and persuasive. Some- 
thing seemed to tell me that perhaps he spoke the truth; 
that mere interest in life would not give the tender tone to 
his voice, that sweet supplication, and that he was pleading 
for more than himself. Again I yielded to the power which 
he held over me, and which I blushed to confess to myself. 

“‘Well,’ I said, 4 1 will give you one more hour; I will 
follow you.’ 

“ I handed him back his dagger. 

“ ‘ No,’ he replied, ‘ keep it ; you defy me. But come, let 
us not lose time.” 


B UG-JABGAL. 


147 


CHAPTER XLY. 

“We continued on our way. During our conversation Rask 
had grown impatient ; and every now and then he ran back 
to us, asking us by a look why we stopped. Now he went 
on joyfully ahead of us. We had entered a virgin forest ; 
and after a walk of about an hour we reached a pretty green 
opening, watered by a spring in the rock, bordered by young 
shrubs and filled with great trees which had stood there 
for centuries. A cave opened upon this savanna; and over 
its entrance climbed many vines, — clematis, bindweed, and 
jasmine. Rask began to bark joyfully ; but Pierrot silenced 
him by a gesture, and without saying a word we entered the 
cave. 

“ A woman, with her back to the light, was seated within, 
on an Esparto rug. At the sound of our footsteps she 
turned. Eriends, it was Marie ! 

“ She wore a white dress as on our wedding-day, and still 
had in her hair the crown of orange-blossoms, the last virgin 
garland of the young wife, which my hands had not taken 
from her forehead. She saw me, uttered a shriek, and fell into 
my arms fainting from joy and surprise. I was speechless. 

“ At her cry an old woman with a child in her arms came 
running from the rear of the cave. It was Marie’s nurse and 
my unfortunate uncle’s youngest son. * Pierrot brought some 
water from the nearest spring. He sprinkled some on 
Marie’s face, and the fresh drops brought her back to life. 
She opened her eyes. 

“ * Leopold ! ’ she cried, 1 my Leopold ! ’ 

“ ‘ Marie ! ’ I whispered, and the rest of our words were 
smothered in kisses. 

“ ‘ Ah, not before me, at least ! ’ cried a despairing voice. 


148 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“We raised our eyes. Pierrot was there, looking as though 
he were being tortured. His chest heaved, an icy perspira- 
tion fell in great drops from his brow. Every limb trembled. 
All at once he hid his face in his hands, and rushed from the 
cave, crying fiercely, ‘ Not before me ! ’ 

“ Marie half-raised herself from my arms, exclaiming, — 

“ ‘ Heavens, Leopold ! he seems strangely affected. Is it 
possible that he loves me ? ’ 

“The slave’s cry had shown me that he was my rival. 
Marie’s question now proved that he was also my friend. 

“ ‘Marie !’ I cried, and an inexpressible joy, a mortal regret, 
sank into my heart, ‘ Marie ! did you not know ? ’ 

“ ‘ But I do not yet know,’ said she with a modest blush. 
‘ Do you mean that he loves me ? I never dreamed it.’ 

' “ I pressed her wildly to my heart. 

“ ‘ I have found my wife and my friend ! ’ I cried ; ‘ how 
happy I am, and yet how guilty ! I doubted him.’ 

“ ‘ What ! ’ cried Marie, amazed. ‘ Pierrot ! Oh ! indeed 
you are greatly to be blamed. You owe him my life twice, 
and perhaps more,’ she added, her eyes falling. ‘Had it 
not been for him the crocodile would have devoured me ; 
had it not been for him, the negroes — it was Pierrot who 
snatched me from them just as they were going to kill me.’ 
She began to cry. 

“ ‘ And why,’ I asked, ‘ why did not Pierrot send you back 
to your husband at the Cape ? ’ 

“ ‘ He tried to,’ she replied, ‘ but he could not. He was 
obliged to hide from the blacks as well as the whites, and it 
made it doubly hard for him. And then they did not know 
what had happened to you. Some said they heard you were 
dead ; but Pierrot assured me that this was not so, and I knew 
he was right, because something told me so ; had you died, I 
should have died at the same time.’ 

“ ‘ Then it was Pierrot who brought you here ? ’ I cried. 

“ ‘ Yes, Leopold ; he alone knows of this cave. He also 
saved all that was left of my family, my good nurse and my 



“1 PRESSED HER WILDLY TO MY HEART.” 






BUG-JARGAL. 


149 


little brother, and hid ns here. I assure you it has been very 
comfortable ; and if the war were not going on, I should like 
to stay here with you, since all we have is lost. Pierrot 
provided for all our needs. He came often ; he wore a red 
feather in his cap. He consoled me, talked to me of you, and 
promised that I should be restored to you. But I have not 
seen him for three days, and I was beginning to be anxious, 
when he came with you. So this poor dear friend went to 
find you ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes/ I answered. 

“ ‘ But how can it be that he is in love with me ? Are 
you sure ? 7 sh’e asked. 

“ ‘ Sure/ I replied. ‘ It was he who, when about to stab 
me, stopped for fear of wounding you ; it was he who sang 
those love-songs in the arbor by the river/ 

“ ‘ Really ? 7 asked Marie, in naive surprise, ‘ he is your 
rival ! The wicked man is this good Pierrot ! I cannot 
believe it. He has been so humble, so respectful with me, 
even more so than when he was our slave ! It is true that 
sometimes he looked at me in a strange way, but I attributed 
it to my misfortunes. If you only knew with what passion- 
ate affection he has talked to me of my Leopold ! His friend- 
ship for you is like love/ 

“ These revelations both pained and delighted me. I re- 
called how cruelly I had treated this generous Pierrot, and 
I understood all the strength of his tender and resigned 
reproach : ‘ It is not I who am ungrateful ! 7 

“ Just then Pierrot returned. His face was sad and 
gloomy. He looked like a victim returning from torture, suf- 
fering but triumphant. He came slowly up to me, and said 
calmly, pointing to the dagger at my belt, — 

“ ‘ The hour is over/ 

“ ‘ The hour ! What hour ? 7 I asked. 

“ * The one you granted me ; I needed it to bring you here. 
I begged you to let me live; now I implore you to let me die . 7 

“ At these words my heart was torn with every emotion ; 


150 


BUG-JARGAL. 


love, friendship, gratitude struggled together, and I was in 
despair. I fell at the feet of the slave, sobbing bitterly, 
unable to utter a word. He raised me hastily. 

“ ‘ What are you doing ? ’ 

“ ‘ I am rendering the homage which you deserve ; I am un- 
worthy of such friendship. Your generosity cannot be great 
enough to forgive my ingratitude.’ 

“ His face still showed traces of a struggle, he still seemed 
undergoing a violent conflict; he stepped nearer me, hesi- 
tated, opened his mouth, then closed it. But the silence 
was of short duration ; and at last he held out his arms, 
saying, — 

“ ‘ May I call you brother now ? ’ 

“ I answered by throwing myself upon his breast. 

“ After a pause he said, — 

“ ‘ You are good, but misery made you unjust.’ 

“ ‘ I have found my brother,’ I answered ; ‘ I shall be un- 
happy no longer ; but I have much to blame myself for.’ 

“ 1 To blame yourself for ! Brother, I blame myself too, 
and far more than you. You are unhappy no longer ; I shall 
be so forever ! ’ 


BUG-JARGAL. 


151 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

The joy which the first touch of friendship had brought 
to his face, faded, and his features assumed an expression of 
strange sadness. 

“ ‘ Listen, I will tell you my story/ said he coldly ; 1 my 
father was king of the country of Kakongo. He rendered 
justice to his subjects at his door, and over every judgment 
that he passed he drank a full cup of wine from the palm. 
This was the custom of the kings. We were happy and in- 
fluential. Some Europeans arrived. From them I learned 
the useless knowledge which has attracted you. Their com- 
mander was a Spanish captain ; he promised my father lands 
greater than his own, and white women as well ; my father 
followed him with his family. Brother, they sold us ! ’ 

“ The chest of the black heaved, his eyes shone ; he me- 
chanically broke off a small medlar shoot that was growing 
near him, and then continued, but without looking at me : — 

“ ‘ The governor of the country of Kakongo had a master, 
and his son worked as a slave on the ridges of San Domingo. 
They separated the young fellow from his old father, in order 
to conquer them the more easily. They took the young wife 
from her husband, that they might make a profit by uniting 
them with others. The little children sought the mother who 
had nourished them, the father who had bathed them in the 
rivers ; but they found only barbarous tyrants, and their bed 
was with dogs ! ’ 

“ He was silent, his lips moved, but no sound came from 
them, his eyes were fixed and staring. At last he seized my 
arm roughly. 

“ <■ Brother, do you hear ? I was sold to various masters 
as though I were a beast. You remember the punishment of 


152 


BUG-JARGAL. 


Oge ; on that day I saw my father ; he was on the rack ! ’ I 
shuddered. He continued : — 

" ‘ My wife had been prostituted to some whites. Listen, 
brother ; she is dead, and asked me to avenge her. Shall I 
tell you ? ’ he added hesitatingly, lowering his eyes, ‘ I did 
wrong, I loved another. But never mind that ! All my 
people urged me to deliver them, and to avenge myself. 
Bask brought me their messages. 

“ ‘ I could not satisfy them, for I myself was a captive in 
your uncle’s prison. The day when you obtained my pardon, 
I hastened to free my children from the hands of a cruel 
master. Brother, when I reached them, the youngest of the 
grandchildren of the King of Kakongo had just been killed 
by a white ! The others, too, had been murdered.’ 

“ He stopped, and asked coldly, — 

“ ‘ Brother, what would you have done ? ’ 
u This sad story froze me with horror. I answered his 
question by a threatening gesture. He understood its mean- 
ing, and smiled bitterly. Then he continued : — 

“ ‘ The slaves revolted against their master, and punished 
him for the murder of my children. They chose me their 
leader. You know the misery of this rebellion. I heard 
that your uncle’s slaves were preparing to follow the ex- 
ample of the others. I reached l’Acul the very night of the 
insurrection. You were away. Your uncle had been mur- 
dered. The blacks had already set fire to the plantations. I 
was unable to calm their fury, because they thought that by 
burning your uncle’s estates they were avenging me. I looked 
around for the rest of your family. I entered the fort through 
the hole I had made. I gave your wife’s nurse to a trusty 
black, but it was more difficult to save yOur Maria. She 
had rushed into the burning portion of the fort, in order to 
save her youngest brother, who alone had escaped being mur- 
dered. She was surrounded by blacks, who were just going 
to kill her as I appeared. I told them to let me avenge my- 
self, and they fell back. I took your wife in my arms, I 


\ 


BUG-JARGAL. 


153 


intrusted the child to Rask, and I brought them both to this 
cave, of which no one but myself knew. Brother, this was 
my crime.’ 

“ I was more and more filled with gratitude and remorse, 
and longed to fall again at Pierrot’s feet ; but he prevented 
me, as though offended. 

“ 4 Well, come,’ he added, taking my hand, 4 bring your wife, 
and let all five of us leave.’ I asked him in surprise where 
he would take us. 

“ 4 To the camp of the whites,’ he replied. 4 This is no 
longer a safe place. To-morrow, at break of day, the whites 
are to attack Biassou’s camp ; and in all probability the forest 
will be burned. We have not a moment to lose ; ten heads 
answer for mine. We can hasten, for you are free ; we must, 
because I am not.’ The words caused me surprise ; I asked 
him what he meant. 

“ £ Have you not heard that Bug-Jargal was captured ? ’ 
asked he impatiently. 

“ 6 Yes, but what have you in common with Bug-Jargal ? ’ 

“ It was his turn to be surprised, as he replied gravely, — 

“ £ I am Bug-Jargal.’ 


154 


bug-jabgal . 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

“ I was growing accustomed, as it were, to meeting witli 
surprises in this man. It was not without astonishment that 
a moment previous I had heard that the slave Pierrot was an 
African king; and my admiration now reached its height 
when I discovered that he was the redoubtable and magnani- 
mous Bug-Jargal, commander of the rebels of Morne-Rouge. 
How I saw the reason for the respect which all the rebels, and 
even Biassou, felt for the commander Bug-Jargal, the King 
of Kakongo. 

“ He did not appear to notice the impression that his last 
words had made on me. 

“ ‘ I heard/ he resumed, ‘ that you had been captured and 
were a prisoner in Biassou’s camp ; and I went to set you 
free.’ 

“ ‘ Why did you say just now that you were not free ? ’ 

“ He looked at me as though wondering what had prompted 
such a question. 

“ ‘ This morning/ said he, ‘ I was a prisoner among your 
men. I heard them say in the camp that Biassou intended 
before sunset to have a young captive, named Leopold d’ Au- 
verney, killed. I was closely guarded. I learned that my 
death would follow yours, and that in case of escape, ten of 
my comrades would be responsible for me. You see why 
I am in haste.’ 

“ I detained him still another moment. 

“ ‘ You escaped, did you ? ’ I asked. 

“ 1 Otherwise, how should I be here ? Had I not you to 
save? Did I not owe my life to you? Come, follow me. 
We are an hour’s walk from the camp of the whites, as well 
as from Biassou’s. See, the line of his cocoa-trees stretch 


BUG-JARGAL. 


155 


out beyond, with their round tops like the huge eggs of the 
condor. In three hours the sun will have set. Come, 
brother ; time flies.’ 

“ In three hours the sun will have set ! The simple words 
froze me, as though a ghost stood before me. They recalled 
to my mind the fatal promise which I had made to Biassou. 
Alas ! when I had looked upon Marie I had forgotten that 
we would soon be separated forever. I had been intoxicated, 
mad with joy ; so many memories had rushed over me that 
I had forgotten my approaching death in my present happi- 
ness. My friend’s words violently recalled my misery. In 
three hours the sun will have set ! In one hour I must return 
to Biassou. My duty was plain before me ; the brigand had 
my word, and it were better to die than to give this barba- 
rian cause to doubt the only thing in which he still trusted, — 
a Frenchman’s honor. The alternative was frightful. I chose 
as I should have chosen; but for an instant, gentlemen, I 
confess I hesitated. Could I be blamed for it ? 


156 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

“ At length, with a groan, I took Bug-Jargal’s hand in 
one of mine, and poor Marie’s in the other. Marie had been 
anxiously watching the shadow creeping over my face. 

“ ‘ Bug-Jargal,’ I said with an effort, ‘ I intrust to you the 
one being in the world whom I love more than you, — Marie. 
Return to the camp without me, for I cannot go.’ 

“ ‘ O God ! ’ cried Marie, scarcely able to breathe, ‘ is it 
some new misfortune ? ’ 

“ Bug-Jargal trembled. A look of sad surprise shone in 
his eyes. 

“ * Brother, what is it ? ’ 

“ Marie’s terror at the sole idea of some misfortune which 
her love seemed to guess, made me decide to hide the truth 
from her, and to spare her all heartrending adieu ; so, leaning 
toward Bug-Jargal, I whispered in a low voice, — 

“ ‘ I am a prisoner. I have promised Biassou to return 
and surrender myself two hours before sunset ; I have 
promised to die.’ 

“ He sprang forward in fury ; his voice was like thunder. 

“ ‘ The monster ! That is why he asked to speak with you 
apart ; it was to exact this promise from you. I should have 
defied this wretch of a Biassou. Why did I not foresee some 
perfidy ? He is not a black, but a mulatto.’ 

“ ‘ What is the matter ? ’ cried Marie, frightened. ‘ What 
perfidy? What promise ? Who is Biassou?’ 

“ ‘ Keep still, keep still,’ I said low to Bug-Jargal ; ‘ let us 
not alarm Marie.’ 

“ ‘ Very well,’ he said in a dull voice. ‘ But how could you 
have consented to such a promise ? Why did you make it ? ’ 

“ ‘ I thought you false ; I thought Marie was dead. Why 
should I want to live ? ’ 


BUG-JARGAL. 


157 


“ ‘ But a promise by word of mouth cannot hoM good with 
this brigand/ 

“ ‘ I gave my word of honor/ 

“ He seemed for a moment as though trying to understand 
my meaning. 

“ ‘ Your word of honor ! What is that ? Have you drunk 
from the same glass ? Have you broken a ring or a branch 
of the red flowering maple between you ? ’ 

“‘No/ 

“ ‘ Well, then, what do you mean ? How are you bound ? ’ 
“ ‘ By my honor/ I replied. 

“ ‘ I do not know what that means. Nothing binds you 
with Biassou. Come with us/ 

“ ‘ I cannot, brother ; I have promised/ 

“ ‘ No ! ? he cried with emphasis, ‘ you have not promised ! ’ 
Then in a loud voice, ‘ Sister, help me to keep your husband 
from leaving us ; he says he must go back to the negro-camp, 
from which I have just rescued him, because he has promised 
their leader Biassou that he would die/ 

“ ‘ What have you done ? ’ I cried. 

“ It was too late to avert the effect of the generous impulse 
which made him beg the help of the woman he loved, to save 
the life of his rival. Marie flung herself into my arms with 
a shriek of despair, clinging with clasped hands about my 
neck, for she was weak and could scarcely breathe. 

“ ‘ Oh ! ? she cried in anguish, ‘ what is he saying, my Leo- 
pold ? It is true, is it not, that he is fooling me ? It is not 
true, is it, that just as he has brought us together, you must 
leave me, and leave me to perish ? Answer me quickly or I 
shall die. You have no right to give up your life, because 
you have no right to kill me. Oh ! you cannot want to leave 
me and never see me again ! ’ 

“ ‘ Marie, do not believe him. I am going to leave you, it is 
true ; but we shall meet elsewhere/ 

“ ‘ Elsewhere/ she cried in fright, ‘ elsewhere, where ? ’ 

“ ‘ In heaven/ I replied. I could not lie to this angel. 


158 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“ She fainted again ; but this time it was from despair. 
The moments were slipping by ; my mind was made up. I 
laid her in Bug- J argal’s arms, and his eyes filled with tears. 

“ ‘ Can nothing keep you ? ’ he asked. ‘ I can say no more ; 
but how can you resist Maria ? For but one of the words she 
has just spoken, I would have given up the whole world, and 
you, you would not give up even dying for her.* 

“ ‘ It is my honor ! 9 I cried. ‘ Farewell, Bug- Jargal, fare- 
well, brother 5 I bequeath her to you.’ 

“ He took my hand ; it seemed as though he scarcely heard 
me. 

“ ‘ Brother, in the camp of the whites there is a relative of 
yours. I will give Maria to him ; as to me, I cannot accept 
your legacy.’ 

u He pointed to a peak overlooking the surrounding 
country. 

“ ‘ Do you see that rock ? When the sign of your death 
appears there, the report of mine will not be long forthcoming. 
Farewell.’ 

“ Without waiting to understand these last words, I em- 
braced him. I kissed Marie’s pale forehead (she was just 
beginning to revive under the nurse’s care) and rushed away, 
fearing that her first look, her first cry, would unnerve all my 
strength. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


159 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

“ I fled in blind haste, and plunged into the deep forest, 
following the path we had left, without daring to look be- 
hind me. In order to stifle the thoughts which filled my 
mind, I ran without stopping across the Inrush wood, over the 
savannas and hills, until I saw before me Biassou’s camp on 
the summit of a cliff, with its lines of cabrouets , adjoupas , 
and clusters of blacks. Then I stopped. I had come to the 
end of my journey, to the end of my life. Weariness and 
exhaustion overpowered me. I leaned against a tree to keep 
from falling, and let my eyes wander over the picture in the 
fatal savanna below. 

“ I thought before then that I had tasted every drop of 
bitterness and gall; yet I did not know the cruellest of all 
misfortunes, — to be compelled by a moral force, more power- 
ful than that of circumstances, to voluntarily renounce hap- 
piness when happy, life when living. A few hours before, 
what was life to me ? I was not living. Deep despair 
is a species of death which makes one long for the real 
death. But I had been pulled out of this despair. Marie 
had been restored to me ; my dead happiness had been resur- 
rected, so to speak ; my past was my future ; and all my 
broken dreams had returned brighter than ever. Life, a life 
of youth, of love, of enchantment, had again opened radiant 
before me with its broad horizon. I could begin to live 
again ; everything within me and without said so. There 
was no material obstacle, no visible hindrance. I was free, I 
was happy, yet I must die. I had taken but one step into 
paradise, and some duty, which was not even a glorious one, 
forced me to die. Death means little to a soul broken and 
torn by adversity; but its touch is cruel and cold when it 


160 


BUG-JABGAL. 


falls upon a young heart warm with life’s blessings. I knew 
this at that moment. For an instant I had stepped from the 
tomb ; I had touched in one short moment all that was most 
heavenly upon earth, — love, devotion, liberty ; and now I 
must descend again within the sepulchre. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


161 


CHAPTER L. 

“ At last this feeling of regret gave way to one of rage. 
I strode on through the valley, feeling the need of haste. I 
reached the advance-posts of the negroes. They seemed 
surprised, and refused to admit me. Strange fact! I was 
almost compelled to beg them to do so till at last two of them 
undertook to lead me to Biassou. 

“ I entered the cave. The general was giving all his atten- 
tion to several instruments of torture which lay near him. 
He turned as we entered ; but the fact of my being there did 
not seem to astonish him. 

“ ‘ Ho you see ? ’ he asked, pointing to the horrible imple- 
ments. 

“ I was very calm ; I knew the cruelty of the 1 Hero of 
Humanity," and I was determined to endure all without 
flinching. 

“ ‘ Was not Leogrie fortunate to have been merely hanged ? 9 
he asked, chuckling. 

“ I watched him in scorn without speaking. 

“ 1 Call the chaplain/ said he to an aide-de-camp. 

“ For a moment we were silent, looking closely at each 
other. 

“ Rigaud entered in apparent agitation, and spoke a few 
words to the generalissimo. 

“ ‘ Assemble all the commanders of my army/ said Biassou 
calmly. 

“ Fifteen minutes later they arrived before the cave in 
their various costumes. Biassou rose. 

“ < Listen, amigos ! The whites are planning an attack 
to-morrow at daybreak. Our position is unsafe; we must 
leave it. At sunset, let us march toward the Spanish fron- 


162 


BUG-JARGAL. 


tier. Macaya, yon will form the advance guard with your 
fugitive blacks. Padrejan, you spike the cannon stolen from 
the artillery of Praloto; it cannot be taken across the moun- 
tains. The soldiers of the Croix-des-Bouquets will move 
after Macaya. Toussaint will follow with the blacks of Leo- 
gane and du Trou. If the griot men and women make the 
slightest noise, I will hand them over to the executioner 
of the army. Lieutenant-Colonel Cloud will distribute the 
English guns left at Cape Cabron, and will lead the free 
half-breeds by the paths of the Vista. If there are any 
prisoners, let them be massacred. The weapons will be poi- 
soned arrows. Three tons of arsenic must be thrown into the 
spring where the water is drawn for the camp ; the colonists 
will think it is sugar, and will drink without distrust. The 
troops of Limbe, Dondon, and l’Acul will march after Cloud 
and Toussaint. Obstruct every avenue of the savanna with 
rocks ; rifle the paths ; burn the forests. Rigaud, you remain 
with us. Candi, you assemble our guard about us. The 
blacks of Morne-Rouge shall form the rear guard, and must 
not leave the savanna before sunrise.’ 

“ Leaning to Rigaud, he said in a low tone, — 

“ ‘ They are the blacks of Bug-Jargal ; if only they might 
be killed here ! Muerta la tropa ! muerto el gefe ! (‘ Kill the 

soldiers ! kill their chief ! ’) Go, hermanos , 9 said he, turning 
to them ; ‘ Candi will give you the word.’ 

“ The chiefs withdrew. 

“ ‘ General,’ said Rigaud, ‘ we must hasten the despatch of 
Jean-FranQois. Our affairs are in a bad condition, and the 
letter might stop the whites.’ 

“ Biassou hurriedly took it from his pocket. 

“ ‘ That reminds me of it ; but there are so many grammati- 
cal mistakes, as they say, in it, that it will make them laugh.’ 

“ He handed me the paper. ‘ Listen to me ; do you want 
to save your life ? My kindness again appeals to your ob- 
stinacy. Help me to write over this letter. I will dictate 
my words to you ; you shall write it in the white style . 9 


BUG-JARGAL. 


168 


“ I shook my head. He seemed impatient. 

“ ‘ Do you mean that you will not ? ’ he asked. 

“ 1 1 will not ! ’ I replied. 

“ He insisted. 

“ ‘ Consider well/ 

“ And his glance seemed to draw me with it toward the 
instrument of torture with which he was playing. 

“ ‘ It is because I have considered that I refuse/ I replied. 
‘ You seem to fear for you and yours ; you count upon your 
letter to the Assembly to retard the march and the attack of 
the whites. I do not wish to prolong my life when it will 
perhaps help to save yours. Let my tortures begin/ 

“ ( Ah ! ah ! muchacho ! ? replied Biassou, pushing his foot 
against the instrument ; ‘ it seems to me that you are becom- 
ing familiar with that. I am sorry, but I have no time to 
have it tried. This place is dangerous; we must leave it at 
once. Ah ! you refuse to be my secretary ! You are right ; 
for I would have had you die afterwards just the same. One 
cannot live and know any secret of Biassou; moreover, my 
dear fellow, I have promised your death to our chaplain/ 

“ He turned to the obi who had entered. 

“ ‘ Good father, is your squad ready ? ’ 

“ The obi nodded affirmatively. 

“ ‘ Is it made up of the blacks of Morne-Kouge ? They are 
the only ones of the army who are not attending to the 
preparations for our departure/ 

“ The obi nodded a second time. 

“ Biassou then pointed to the great black flag in the corner 
of the cave, which I have already mentioned. 

“ ‘ There is something which will announce to your men 
when they may give your epaulets to your lieutenant. You 
know that then I shall be already on the march. By the 
way, you have been walking about, how is the surrounding 
country ? ’ 

“ 1 1 noticed/ I replied coldly, ‘ that there were trees enough 
there on which to hang you and your entire army/ 


164 


BUG-JARGAL. 


“‘Well,’ he replied with a forced chuckle, ‘ there is a place 
that as yet you have not seen, but with which the bon per 
will make you acquainted. Farewell, young captain ; good- 
night to Leogri.’ 

“ He bowed with a laugh which reminded me of the sound 
of a rattlesnake, waved his hand and turned aside, and the 
negroes led me away. The veiled obi accompanied us, his 
missal in his hand. 


BTJG-JARGAL. 


165 


CHAPTER LI. 

(i I went with them without offering any resistance, which 
indeed would have been useless. We climbed to the top of 
a cliff west of the savanna, where we halted a moment to 
rest. I threw a last look upon the setting sun, which would 
never again rise for me. My guides went on ; I followed. 

“ We descended into a little valley, which at another time 
would have delighted me. A waterfall ran down its sides, 
making the earth soft and damp. This torrent emptied, at 
one end of the valley, into one of those blue lakes with 
which the interior of the mountains of San Domingo abound. 
Often, in happier times, I had sat down at twilight to dream 
upon the border of these beautiful lakes when their azure is 
changing into a sheet of silver, and where the reflection of 
the first stars of evening dot it with spangles of gold ! The 
hour was at hand, but it would soon be over. How beautiful 
the valley seemed to me ! Flowering plane-trees, maples of 
great height and breadth, clustering clumps of mauritias , — 
a sort of palm-tree which shuts out all other vegetation 
beneath its shade, — date-trees, magnolias with their large 
blossoms, great catalpas with their smooth cut leaves show- 
ing among the golden branches of the mock ebony-trees. 
The Canadian odier mingled its pale yellow blossoms with 
the blue of the wild honeysuckle. Fresh curtains of bind- 
weed hid from sight the brown sides of the neighboring 
rocks. Everywhere from the green earth there arose a fresh 
odor like that which the first man must have breathed from 
the virgin roses in Eden. We walked along a path by the 
side of the waterfall. I was surprised to see this path end 
abruptly at the foot of a cliff, where I noticed an opening in 
the form of an arch, whence came the waterfall. A hollow 
sound, a strong rushing, was heard from behind this natural 
arch. The negroes took a path on the left, winding and rough, 


166 


B UG-JARGAL. 


and which seemed as though it had been cut by the waters 
of a cascade, long since dried up. We came upon a vault 
half-closed by blackberry-vines, holly-trees, and wild acacia 
blossoms, which hung over it. From within, came a sound 
like the one we had heard behind the arch in the valley. 
The blacks led me within. Hardly had I set foot there before 
the obi approached me, and said in a strange voice, — 

“ 1 This is what I have to tell you now ; only one of us two 
shall go out from this vault and return by the path/ I 
scorned to answer. We advanced in the darkness ; the noise 
became louder and louder, till we could not hear our own foot- 
steps. I supposed the sounds came from a waterfall, and I 
was not mistaken. 

“ After a ten minutes’ walk in the shade, we reached a sort 
of interior platform, cut out by Nature in the heart of the 
mountains. The greater part of this semicircular platform 
was inundated by the waterfall, which fell with frightful 
force from the under-ground springs. Above this subter- 
ranean room, the vault formed a sort of dome, covered with 
ivy of a yellowish color. A rift ran along almost the entire 
width of the vault ; daylight entered here, and the edge was 
covered with green shrubs, now golden beneath the sun’s 
rays. At the northern end of the platform the waterfall 
tumbled noisily into a whirlpool, within the depths of which 
the dim light from the rift seemed to flicker without being 
able to reach it. An old tree hung over the abyss, its top- 
most branches mingling in the foam of the cascade, and its 
knotty stem protruding through the rock one or two feet 
below the edge. Thus, at the same time, the tree bathed in 
the waterfall with its head and its root, which, like a flesh- 
less arm, hung over the whirlpool, and itself was so bare of 
foliage that it was unrecognizable. It was a strange-looking 
object; only the dampness which penetrated its roots kept 
it from dying, while the violence of the waterfall constantly 
tore off each fresh, branch, foreing it to be forever contented 
with the old ones. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


167 


CHAPTER LII. 

“ The blacks halted in this dreadful place, and I knew that 
I must die. 

“ There by the side of the whirlpool into which I had in a 
way thrown myself, the picture of the happiness I had so 
lately renounced, assailed me like a regret, almost like re- 
morse. All entreaty was unworthy of me; but I could not 
help a groan. 

“ ‘ Friends/ I said to the blacks around me, 1 do you know 
that it is a sad thing to die at twenty, when one is full of 
life and strength, when one is loved by those he loves, and 
whom he leaves behind to mourn for him till their eyes close 
forever ? ’ 

“ The words were received with a horrible laugh. It came 
from the little obi. This evil spirit, this strange being, then 
hastily approached me. 

“ ‘ Ha ! ha ! ha ! You long for life. Labodo sea Dios ! 
My only fear was that you would have no terror of death ! ’ 

“ It was the same voice, the same laugh, that had already 
baffled my conjectures. 

“ ‘ Wretch ! ’ I cried, ‘ who are you ? ’ 

“ 1 You shall know ! ’ he replied in a terrible voice. Then, 
removing the golden sun from his brown breast, he exclaimed, 
‘ Look ! ’ 

“ I leaned toward him. Two names were written in white 
letters on the obi’s shaggy breast, the hideous and indelible 
marks branded on the breast of slaves by a burning-iron. 
One of these names was Effingham , the other was my uncle’s 
and mine, d’ Auverney ! I stood transfixed with surprise. 

“‘Well, Leopold d’ Auverney, does your name tell you 
mine ? ? asked the obi. 


168 


BUG-JARGAL. 


44 ‘No/ I answered, astonished at hearing my name uttered 
by this man, and trying to rally my thoughts. 4 These two 
names were on no breast save the clown’s. But he is dead, 
the poor dwarf, and, besides, he loved us. You cannot be 
Habibrah ! ’ 

44 4 But I am ! ’ cried he in a startling tone ; and, raising the 
bloody gorra , he took off his veil. The deformed face of our 
hunchback stood before me, but with a look of wild joy on 
his face which had taken the place of the threatening, evil 
expression. 

44 4 Great God ! ’ I cried, struck almost dumb with amaze- 
ment, 4 are all the dead returning to life ? It is Habibrah, 
my uncle’s fool ! ’ 

44 The dwarf placed his hand on his dagger, and said in a 
hollow voice, — 

44 4 His fool, — and his murderer.’ 

44 1 sprang back in horror. 

44 4 His murderer ! Assassin, was it in this way that you 
thanked him for his kindness ? ’ The obi interrupted me, — 

44 4 His kindness ! say rather his outrages ! ’ 

44 4 What ! ’ I cried, 4 was it you who killed him, you miser- 
able wretch ? 

44 4 Yes, I ! ’ he replied with a horrible expression on his 
features. 4 1 plunged the knife so deep into his heart that he 
had scarcely time to awaken in order to die. He cried 
feebly, 44 Habibrah, come here ! ” — but I was there ! ’ 

44 His atrocious story, his calm indifference, staggered me. 

44 4 Wretch! cowardly assassin ! Did you forget the favors 
he heaped upon you ? You ate at his table ; you slept by 
his bed ’ — 

44 4 Like a dog ! ’ Habibrah interrupted quickly ; 4 como un 
perro ! Ha ! I remember only too well these favors, which 
were insults. I had my revenge on him ; I will have it now 
on you. Listen ! Do you think that because I am a mulatto, 
a dwarf, and deformed, that I am not a man ? Ah, I have a 
soul, and a deeper and stronger one than that which I am 


BUG JABGAL. 


169 


going to take away from your weak body ! I was given to 
your uncle like a monkey. I served his will ; I amused him. 
He loved me, you say ; I did hold a place in his heart. Yes, 
between his monkey and his parrot; but I chose another, 
with my dagger.’ 

“ I groaned aloud. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ the dwarf resumed, ‘ it is I ! indeed it is ! Look 
me in the face, Leopold d’Auverney ! You have laughed at 
me often enough. Now you may groan. Ah ! you recall to 
my mind the shameful preference your uncle showed for his 
clown ! What a preference, bon Gin ! When I entered your 
room, I was received with a scornful laugh; my figure, my 
deformity, my features, my absurd costume, even the pitiful 
infirmity of my mind, everything, suffered from the accursed 
jests of your uncle and his wretched friends. And I, I could 
not even be silent ; I was compelled, o rabia ! I was com- 
pelled to add my laughter to that which I aroused. Tell me, 
do you think that such humiliation is a reason for the grati- 
tude of any human being ? Do you think that it was not 
equal to the misery of the other slaves, their ceaseless labor, 
the heat of the sun, their iron collar, their master’s whip ? 
Do you not think that it was enough to rouse in a man’s 
heart a fiery, implacable, eternal hatred, as lasting as the 
scourge of infamy which marks my breast ? Oh, my revenge 
was too short for such long suffering! Could I have but 
made my hateful tyrant feel every torture which I had suf- 
fered every minute of every day ! If he could only have 
known before he died the bitterness of wounded pride, and 
felt what burning marks the tears of shame and rage leave on 
a face forced to smile constantly ! Alas ! it is hard indeed to 
have waited so long for revenge, and to have ended it with a 
thrust of a dagger ! If he could only have known whose 
hand struck him ! But I was impatient to hear the last rattle 
in his throat ; I plunged the knife too deep. He died without 
recognizing me ; my fury cheated my revenge ! This time, at 
least, it will be different. You see me, don’t you ? It is true 


170 


BUG—JABGAL. 


that you might have some difficulty in recognizing me in this 
new light. You never before saw me except with a happy, 
laughing face ; now nothing prevents my soul from looking 
out from my eyes, and I do not resemble my own old self. 
You have known only my mask ; this is my face ! ’ 

“ It was indeed horrible. 

“ ‘ Monster ! ’ I cried, ‘ you deceive yourself ; there is still 
something of the clown in the atrocity .of your features and 
the cruelty of your heart/ 

“ ‘ Do not speak of atrocity ! ’ interrupted Habibrah. ‘ Re- 
member your uncle’s cruelty’ — 

“ ‘ Wretch ' ’ I cried, enraged, ‘ if he was cruel, it was through 
you ! You pity the lot of the unhappy slaves ; why, then, did 
you turn against your brothers the advantage that the weak- 
ness of my uncle gave you ? Why did you *not try to influence 
him in their favor ? ’ 

“ ‘ 1 should have been sorry indeed to do that ! I hinder 
a white from committing any act of cruelty ! No, no ! On 
the contrary, I strove rather to increase his cruel treatment 
of the slaves, in order to hasten the hour of their revolt, in 
order that their oppression might lead to revenge ! So, by 
seeming to harm my brothers, in reality I helped them ! ’ 

“ I was amazed at such hatred. 

“‘Well!’ continued the dwarf, ‘do you know now that I 
could plan and carry out my ideas ? What think you of the 
fool Habibrah ! What think you of your uncle’s clown ? ’ 

“ ‘ Complete what you have so well begun,’ I replied. ‘ Kill 
me, but do it quickly ! ’ 

“ He began to walk up and down the platform, rubbing his 
hands together. 

“ ‘ And suppose it does not please me to do it quickly ? 
Suppose I wish to enjoy your anguish at my ease ? Let me 
tell you this, Biassou owed me for my part in the plunder of 
the last village. When I saw you in the camp of the blacks, 
I asked only for your life, and he willingly granted it. Now 
it belongs to me, and I am amusing myself with it. Very 


BUG-JARGAL. 


171 


soon you will follow the waterfall into the whirlpool ; make 
yourself easy. But I must tell you first, that I have discov- 
ered the spot where your wife has been hidden, that I have 
Biassou’s promise to burn the forest (it must even now be in 
flames), and that in this way your entire family will be 
destroyed. Your uncle perished by the sword ; you are about 
to die by water, and your Marie by fire ! ’ 

“ Wretch, wretch! ’ I cried, springing toward him. 

“ He turned to the negroes. 

“ ‘ Men, bind him ! His hour is come.’ 

“The negroes in silence began to tie me with the cords 
which they had brought with them. Suddenly I seemed to 
hear the distant barking of a dog, but I thought it was an 
illusion made by the roar of the waterfall. The negroes 
finished binding me, and led me to the brink of the whirl- 
pool, into which I was to be hurled. The dwarf, with folded 
arms, was watching me, a look of triumphant joy on his face. 
I raised my eyes to the rift, to avoid his hateful face, and to 
see the sky once more. Just then I heard a louder and nearer 
bark, and the huge head of Bask rushed by the opening. I 
swayed. The clown cried, ‘ Now, then ! ’ The blacks, who 
had not noticed the barking, seized me to hurl me into the 
midst of the abyss. 


172 


BUG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

“ ‘ Comrades ! y cried a voice of thunder. They turned ; 
it was Bug-JargaFs. He stood at the edge of the rift, a 
scarlet plume floating from his head. ‘ Comrades, stop ! ’ 

“ The blacks bowed to the earth. He continued, — 

“ 1 1 am Bug-JargalP 

“The blacks again bowed their foreheads to the ground, 
with cries which were hard to understand. 

“ ‘ Unbind the prisoner/ cried the chief. 

“ At this point the dwarf recovered from the amazement 
into which the sudden presence of the man had thrown him. 
He laid his hands upon the blacks who were about to .cut my 
cords. ‘ What is this ? ’ he cried. ‘ Quo quiere decir eso ? ’ 

“ Then, looking up at Bug- J argal, — 

“ 1 Chief of Morne-Rouge, for what have you come here ? ’ 

“ Bug-Jargal replied, — 

“ I come to command my brothers ! 9 

“‘Yes/ said the dwarf in concentrated rage, ‘ these are 
blacks of Morne-Rouge ! But what right have you/ he raised 
his voice, ‘ to dispose of my prisoner ? 9 

“ ‘ I am Bug-Jargal ! ’ the chief replied. The blacks touched 
their foreheads to the ground. 

“ 6 Bug-Jargal/ resumed Habibrah, 6 cannot undo what Bias- 
sou has done. Biassou gave me this white man ; I wish him 
to die ; he shall die. VosotrosJ shouted he to the blacks, 
‘obey! Hurl him into the whirlpool. ’ 

“ At the obi’s powerful voice, the negroes rose and advanced 
toward me. I thought my time had come. 

“ ( Unbind the prisoner/ cried Bug-Jargal. 

“ In the twinkling of an eye I was freed. My amazement 
equaled the obi’s rage. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


173 


“ He sprang upon me, but the blacks stopped him. Then 
he gave vent to imprecations and threats. 

“ ‘Demonios! rabia! infierno de mi alma! How! wretches! 
you refuse to obey me ! You defy me, mi voz ! why did I 
lose time, el tiempo , listening este maldicho ! I should have 
thrown him at once to the fishes del baratro ! On account of 
my wish for perfect revenge, I have lost all! 0 rabia de 
Satan ! Escueliate , vosotros ! If you do not obey me, if you 
do not hurl this evil white into the torrent, I will curse you ! 
your hair shall turn white ; the bugs and the mosquitoes 
shall devour you alive ; your legs and your arms shall bend 
like rose-twigs ; your breath shall scorch your throat like 
burning sand ; you will die, and after your death your spirits 
will be condemned to turn a millstone as huge as a mountain 
for ever and ever, in the moon where it is freezing cold.’ 

“ This picture had a strange effect upon me. The only 
white man, in this damp, black cave, surrounded by negroes 
like demons, hanging, as it were, upon the edge of the bot- 
tomless abyss ; threatened in turn by the hideous clown, the 
deformed sorcerer, whose striped clothes and painted cap were 
scarcely visible in the pale light; and protected by a great 
black, who appeared at the only spot from which the sky 
could be seen, — I seemed to be at the gates of hell, awaiting 
the losing or the keeping of my soul, and helping at a stub- 
born fight between my good and evil spirit. 

“ The blacks seemed terrified at the maledictions of the obi. 
Wishing to take advantage of their hesitation, he cried, — 

“ ‘ I wish this white man to die and you shall obey me ; he 
shall die ! ’ 

“ Bug- Jar gal cried gravely, — 

“ ‘ He shall live ! I am Bug-Jargal. My father was king of 
the country of Kakongo, and rendered justice on the threshold 
of his home.’ 

u The blacks again prostrated themselves. 

“ The chief continued, — 

“ < Brothers, go to Biassou, and tell him not to unfurl upon 


174 


BUG-JARGAL. 


the mountain, the black flag which was to announce to the 
whites the death of this captive ; for this captive has saved 
Bug-Jargal’s life, and Bug-Jargal wishes him to live !’ 

“They rose. Bug-Jargal threw his red plume into their 
midst. The chief of the detachment crossed his arms upon 
his breast, and picked up the plume in awe; then they all 
went out without a word. The obi, too, disappeared within 
the shadows of the subterranean cavern. 

“I will not attempt to describe to you, gentlemen, how I 
felt. I turned my moist eyes to Pierrot, who was watching 
me with a strange expression of gratitude and pride. 

“ ‘ Thank God ! ’ he said at last ; ( you are saved. Brother, 
return by the way you came. You will see me again in the 
valley.’ 

“ He waved his hand and withdrew. 


BUG-JABGAL. 


175 


CHAPTER LIY. 

Anxious to reach this rendezvous, and to know how my 
protector had appeared just jn time, I hastened to leave the 
frightful cave. But new dangers were in store for me. 
Just as I started toward the underground passage, an unseen 
object suddenly barred the entrance. It was Habibrah. The 
angry obi had not followed the negroes, as I had supposed, 
but had hidden himself behind a pile of rocks, waiting for the 
most propitious moment for him to take his revenge. The 
moment had come. The dwarf suddenly jumped up with a 
laugh. I was alone, unarmed ; a dagger, the one which took 
the place of the crucifix, shone in his hand. At sight of him 
I sprang back involuntarily. 

“ ‘ Ha, ha ! Maldicho ! you thought you had escaped me, 
but the fool is not so great a fool as you ! I have you now, 
and this time I will not keep you waiting. Nor shall your 
friend Bug-Jargal await for you in vain. You shall go to 
the rendezvous in the valley, but the waters of this torrent 
shall carry you there.’ He hurled himself upon me with 
upraised dagger. 

“ ‘ Monster ! ’ I cried, springing back upon the platform, 
‘ but a moment ago you were a hangman, now you would be 
an assassin ! ’ 

“ 1 1 am avenging myself ! ’ he cried, grinding his teeth. 

“ I was on the edge of the precipice ; he rushed at me, in 
order to stab me. I avoided the blow, and his foot suddenly 
slipped upon the slimy moss which covered the damp rocks, 
and he fell into the abyss. ‘ A thousand devils ! ’ he roared. 
I have said that a branch of an old tree protruded from the 
crevices of the rock, a little below the edge. In his fall, the 
dwarf’s lace skirt caught upon one of the knots of this branch, 


176 


BUG-JARGAL. 


and seizing this last support, he grasped it with all his might. 
His pointed cap fell from his head, he had to let go of his 
dagger, and this and the tinkling gorra disappeared together 
within the depths of the cataract. 

“ Habibrah, thus suspended over the horrible whirlpool, at 
first strove to regain the platform ; but his short arms reached 
only to the edge of the crag, and his nails clutched in vain 
the slimy surface of the rock which overhung the dark abyss. 
He groaned with rage. 

“ The slightest touch from me would have been enough to 
hurl him into the depths below ; but I could not think of 
doing such a thing, it would have been cowardly. This fact 
struck him. Thanking Heaven for saving me in so unexpected 
a manner, I had decided to leave him to his fate, and was 
about to rush from the cavern, when I suddenly heard the 
dwarf’s cry, imploring me to save him. 

“ ‘ Master,’ he cried, 1 master, do not go, please ! In the 
name of the bon Giu, do not leave me here to die, impenitent 
and unforgiven, a human being whom you can save. Alas ! 
strength fails me, the branch slips and bends beneath my 
hand, the weight of my body drags me down, I shall either 
fall or it will break. Alas, master ! the frightful whirlpool 
is seething below me ! Nombre santo de Dios ! have you no 
pity for your poor clown ? He is indeed a criminal ; but can 
you not prove to him that the whites are better than the 
mulattoes, the masters than the slaves ? ’ 

“I had approached the precipice, greatly moved; and the 
pale light from the rift showed me on the repulsive face of 
the dwarf an expression of supplication and distress which 
I had never seen there before. 

*“ ‘ Senor Leopold,’ he went on, encouraged by an exclama- 
tion of pity which escaped me, ‘is it true that one human 
being can see another in such a horrible position, and not aid 
him when he is able to do so ? Alas ! give me your hand, 
master. It needs only a little help to save me. It is so 
much for me and so little for you ! Lift me up, I beg ! My 
gratitude shall more than equal my crimes.’ 


BUG-JARGAL . 


177 


“ I interrupted him. 

u ( Wretched man ! do not refer to that/ 

“ ‘ It is to prove how I despise it, master ! 9 he replied. 
‘ Ah ! be more generous than I. 0 Heavens, 0 Heavens ! I 
grow weak, I fall, — - by desdichado / Your hand, your hand ! 
Give me your hand, in the name of the mother who bore 
you ! ’ I cannot tell you how heartrending were his cries of 
terror and agony. I forgot everything. He was no longer an 
enemy, a traitor, an assassin ; he was a wretched man, whom 
a mere turn of my hand could snatch from a frightful death. 
He implored me so pitifully. All words, all reproach, would 
have been unheeded by me, and useless ; the need of help 
seemed urgent. I leaned over, and kneeling upon the edge, 
I held with one of my hands to the trunk of the tree, on the 
root of which the unfortunate Habibrah was suspended, and 
reached down the other to him. 

“ He caught it with his two hands with such strength, that, 
instead of raising himself up by it, as I had supposed he 
would do, he strove to pull me down into the abyss with him. 
If the trunk of the tree had not been firm, I should certainly 
have been jerked off the edge by the sudden and unexpected 
grasp which the wretch gave me. 

“ ‘ Villain/ I cried, 1 what are you doing ? ? 

“ * I am avenging myself ! 9 he replied, with an infernal 
laugh. ‘ Ah ! I have you now. "Fool ! you have given your- 
self up ! I have you ! You were saved, I was lost ; but it 
is you yourself who have stepped voluntarily into the jaws of 
the crocodile, because she groaned after she had roared. I 
am consoled, since my death is my revenge ! You are caught 
in the trap, amigo , and I shall have a human companion 
among the fishes in the lake/ 

“ ‘ Ah ! traitor ! ’ I cried, writhing, ‘ this is how you thank 
me for having tried to save you, is it ? 9 

Yes/ he shouted; ‘I know that I could save myself by 
you, but I prefer to have you die with me. I prefer your 
death to my life. Come ! * 


178 


BUG-JARGAL. 


u His bronzed and callous bands grasped mine with super- 
human strength ; his eyes flamed, his mouth foamed ; the 
strength which he had cried was leaving him only a moment 
ago had returned, augmented by rage and his longing for 
revenge ; his feet clutched the perpendicular sides of the rock 
like two levers ; and he sprang like a tiger from the root, 
which, entangled in his clothes, held him in spite of his efforts 
to break it. He bore his whole weight upon me, to drag me 
down the more quickly. Now and then he stopped to bite the 
root in rage, laughing horribly the while. He looked like 
some frightful demon of the cave seeking to draw down his 
victim into his palace of shade and darkness. One of my 
knees luckily had caught in a crevice of the rock; my arm 
was, as it were, tied about the tree of which I had hold ; and 
I struggled against the clown’s efforts with the strength 
which comes from the thought of self-preservation. Now and 
then I raised myself, and called with all my strength, £ Bug- 
Jargal ! ’ But the rushing of the cascade and the remote- 
ness of the cavern made me scarcely hope he could hear me. 

“ The dwarf, who had not expected such resistance, re- 
doubled his furious pulling. I was beginning to lose my 
strength, although the struggle lasted a much shorter time 
than it takes to tell you about it. An insupportable pain 
was almost paralyzing my arm ; my sight was growing dim ; 
a lurid and confused glare came before my eyes ; a roaring 
sound filled my ears ; I heard the branch crack, ready to 
break ; I heard the fiend laugh as he was about to fall ; and 
it seemed as though the thundering whirlpool swept over me. 

“ Before completely giving way to exhaustion and despair, 
however, I thought I would try a last resort ; I gathered my 
failing strength together, and cried again, ‘ Bug-Jargal ! ’ A 
bark answered me. I knew it was Bask, and raised my eyes. 
Bug-Jargal and his dog were at the edge of the crevice ! I 
do not know whether he had heard my voice, or if a feeling of 
anxiety had brought him back. He saw my danger at once. 

“ ‘ Hold on firmly ! ’ he cried. 


BUG-JARGAL. 


179 


“ Habibrah, fearing I would be saved, cried out, foaming 
with rage : — 

“ ( Come now ! come ! ’ and for a final effort he gathered 
together all his supernatural strength. My arm fell from 
around the tree. It was almost over with me, when suddenly 
I felt myself seized from behind ; it was Rask. At a sign 
from his master he had sprung from the rift upon the plat- 
form, and had grasped me between his teeth, by my coat- 
tails. This unexpected help saved my life. Habibrah’s 
strength was gone; I strove to wrench away my hand. 
His benumbed and stiffened fingers were forced to let go; 
the branch gave way ; and as Rask pulled me back violently, 
the wretched dwarf fell down into the foam of the dark 
cascade, hurling after him a malediction which I did not 
hear, and which fell back upon him within the abyss. 

“ Such was the fate of my uncle’s clown. 


180 


BTJG-JARGAL. 


CHAPTER LV. 

“The frightful scene, the mad struggle, its terrible end, 
had been too much for me. I was weak and almost uncon- 
scious, but Bug-Jargal’s voice recalled me. 

“ ‘ Brother,’ he cried, ‘ hasten away from here ! The sun 
will have set in half an hour. I will wait for you below. 
Follow Bask.’ 

“ The cheering words brought back hope and strength 
and courage to me. I arose. The mastiff plunged quickly 
through the underground passage, I following ; his yelping 
guided me through the dark. After several minutes, I saw 
daylight before me ; and finally we reached the opening, 
where I could once more breathe freely. As I came out of 
the dark, damp vault, I remembered the dwarf’s words as 
we had entered : — 

“ ‘ Only one of us two shall return by this road.’ 

“ His hope had been thwarted, but his prophecy had been 
fulfilled. 


BUG-JAHGAL. 


181 


CHAPTER LYI. 

“We reached the valley and Bug-Jargal. I threw myself 
into his arms, and leaned upon him, almost overpowered, 
wanting to ask him a thousand questions, but unable to 
speak. 

44 4 Your wdfe, my sister/ said he, 4 is safe. I took them to 
the camp of the whites, to a relative of yours, who is in com- 
mand of the outposts; I wished to give myself up as a pris- 
oner, that they might not sacrifice the ten heads which had 
answered for mine. Your relative told me to flee, and try and 
save you, that the ten blacks would not be killed unless you 
were, which fact Biassou would have announced by hoisting a 
black flag on the highest mountain. Then I ran, guided by 
Rask ; and, thank Heaven, I reached you in time ! You will 
live and I too ! ” 

44 He extended his hand, adding, — 

44 4 Brother, are you satisfied ? , 

44 1 clasped him again in my arms ; I implored him not to 
leave me, but to stay with me among the whites ; I promised 
him an officer’ s rank in the colonial army. He interrupted 
me sternly. 

44 4 Brother, have I asked you to enlist in mine ? 9 

44 1 was silent, realizing my mistake. Then he said 
gayly,— 

44 4 Come, let us go quickly, and see and reassure your 
wife.’ 

44 This suggestion answered a pressing need of my heart ; I 
rose, mad with joy, and we set out. The black knew the road ; 
he walked before me, Rask followed.” 

D’Auverney paused, and looked sadly about him. The 
perspiration stood out in great drops on his forehead. He 


182 


BUG-JARGAL. 


covered his face with his hand. Rask watched him anx- 
iously. 

“ Yes, you looked at me in just that way ! ” he murmured. 
An instant later he sprang up, strongly agitated, and left 
the tent. The mastiff and the sergeant followed. 


BTJG-JARGAL. 


183 


CHAPTER LVII. 

“ I’ll wager that we are approaching the climax ! ” cried 
Henry. “ I shall really be sorry if anything happened to 
Bug- Jar gal ; what a fine man he was ! ” 

Paschal raised his lips from the wicker bottle, saying, — 

“For a dozen hampers of port, I should like to see the 
cocoanut which he emptied at a gulp.” 

Alfred, who had been humming a guitar accompaniment, 
stopped, and begged Lieutenant Henry to fasten his shoulder- 
straps ; then he added : — 

“The negro interests me intensely. Only I have not yet 
dared to ask d’ Auverney if he knew the air from ‘ la hermosa 
de Padilla .’ ” 

“ Biassou is much more remarkable,” said Paschal ; “ his tar- 
wine was not worth very much, but the man knew what a 
Frenchman was at least. Had I been his prisoner, I would 
have let my mustache grow, in order that he might lend me 
some piastres on it, as the city of Goa did to the Portuguese 
captain. I tell you my creditors are more pitiless than 
Biassou.” 

“ By the way, Captain, there are the four louis that I owe 
you ! ” cried Henry, throwing his purse to Paschal. 

The captain looked astonished at his generous debtor, who 
might better have called himself his creditor. Henry hastened 
to continue, — 

“ Well, gentlemen, what do you think of the captain’s story 
so far ? ” 

“ Faith,” said Alfred, “ I have not been listening very 
closely, but I will confess that I expected something more 
interesting from the dreamy d’Auverney. Then, it is a 
romance in prose, and I do not like prose romances ; to 


184 


BUG-JARGAL. 


what tune is this one sung ? In short, the story of Bug- 
Jargal wearies me ; it is too long.” 

“ You are right,” said the aide-de-camp Paschal ; “ it is 
too long. If I had not had my pipe and my flask, I should 
have had a bad night of it. Besides, there are too many 
absurd parts in it. The idea, for instance, of that little 
deformed sorcerer — - what’s his name ? Habit-bas ? — the 
idea of his wishing to drown himself, in order to kill his 
enemy.” 

Henry interrupted him, laughing, — 

“And in water, too, Captain Paschal. The most amusing 
thing to me during d’Auverney’s story, was watching his 
lame dog raise his head every time he uttered the name 
Bug- Jar gal.” 

“In that,” said Paschal, “he did exactly the opposite to 
what I have seen the old woman of Celadas do, when the 
preacher pronounced the name of Jesus; I went to church 
with a dozen fellows ” — 

The report of the sentinel’s gun warned them of d’Auver- 
ney’s return, and they all became silent. The captain walked 
about for a time with folded arms, and without speaking. 
Old Thadee, who had seated himself in a corner, looked at 
him sidewise, and tried to pretend that he was petting Rask, 
so that the captain might not notice his anxiety. 

Finally d’Auverney resumed : — 


BUG-JABGAL. 


185 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

“ Rask followed us. The sun had already set behind the 
highest cliff in the valley ; one lingering ray fell across it, and 
then vanished. The black trembled ; he grasped my hand 
roughly. 

“ ‘ Listen/ he said. 

“ A hollow sound, like the report of a cannon, echoed along 
the valley. 

“ ‘ It is the signal ! 9 exclaimed the negro sadly. Then, — 

“ ‘ It was the report of a gun, was it not ? 9 

u I nodded my head. 

“ With two bounds he was upon a high rock. 

“ I followed. He crossed his arms, and smiled sadly. 

“ ( Do you see ? ’ he asked. 

“ I looked where he pointed, and saw a great black flag on 
the peak, which he had pointed out to me after my interview 
with Marie, and the only one on which the sun still rested.” 

D’Auverney paused. 

“ I heard afterwards that Biassou had been in haste to 
start, and believing me dead, had ordered the flag raised be- 
fore the return of the troops who were to kill me. 

“ Bug-Jargal stood with folded arms gazing at the black 
flag. Then he turned quickly, as though to step down from 
the rock. 

“ ‘ God ! God ! my unhappy comrades ! 9 

“ He came back to me. ‘ Did you hear the report ? 9 he 
asked. I did not answer. 

“ ‘ Well, brother, it was the signal. They are marching 
them out already.’ 

“ His head fell forward on his breast. He came still 
nearer to me. 


186 


BUG-JABGAL. 


“ 1 Go back to your wife, brother ; Bask will show yon the 
way/ 

“ He whistled an African air ; and the dog began to wag 
his tail, as though anxious to set out toward one point of 
the valley. 

“Bug-Jargal took my hand, striving to smile; but he could 
not. 

“ ‘ Farewell ! 9 he cried, in a deep voice, then suddenly dis- 
appeared within the woods about us. 

“ I was petrified. The little I knew of all that had just 
taken place made me foresee every misfortune. 

“ Bask, seeing that his master was gone, sprang to the edge 
of the rock, wagging his head, with plaintive yelps. He re- 
turned, hanging his tail ; his great eyes were wet ; he watched 
me restlessly, then turned to where his master had disap- 
peared, and barked and barked. I understood him ; I felt 
the same fear as he did, and I followed as he sped on after 
Bug-Jargal. He would soon have been out of sight, although 
I ran as fast as I could, had he not from time to time stopped, 
as though to give me time to catch up to him. We crossed 
several valleys, and hills covered with woodland. At last ” — 

D’Auverney stopped. A sad despair was pictured on his 
face ; he could hardly speak : — 

“ Go on, Thadee, I have no more strength than an old 
woman.” 

The old sergeant was no less moved than the captain, but 
he prepared to obey him. 

“ By your leave, since you wish it, Captain. I must tell 
you, my officers, that although Bug-Jargal, called Pierrot, 
was a great negro, very gentle, very strong, and brave, and 
the greatest soldier in the world, next to you, Captain, if you 
please, I was none the less angry with him, for which fact I 
will never forgive myself, although my captain has forgiven 
me for it. I was so angry, Captain, that after your death had 
been announced for the evening of the second day, I became 
violently enraged against the poor man ; and it was with a 


BUG-JARGAL . 


187 


genuine and infernal pleasure that I told him that it would 
be he, or, in case of his defaulting, ten of his men, who would 
keep you company, and who would be shot ‘ in retaliation/ as 
they say. At this he said nothing ; but an hour later he 
escaped through a great hole” — 

D’Auverney made an impatient gesture. Thadee con- 
tinued : — 

“ So be it ! When we saw the great black flag on the 
mountain, as he had not returned, and which did not surprise 
us, by your leave, my officers, the signal was given, from the 
cannon, and I was ordered to lead out the ten negroes to the 
place of execution, called the Bouche-du-grand-Diable Mouth 
of the Great Devil ’), about — but what does it matter how far 
it was from the camp ? When we reached there, you know 
very well, gentlemen, it was not in order to set them free ; so 
I had them bound, as is always done, and I began to make 
ready my company. Suddenly I looked up and saw the great 
negro, coming from the forest.' My arms fell. He came 
running up out of breath. 

“ 1 I am here in time ! ’ said he. ‘ How are you, Thadee ? ’ 

“ < Yes, gentlemen, these were his only words ; and he un- 
bound his companions, while I stood there stupefied. Then, 
by your leave, Captain, there took place a generous struggle 
between the blacks and him, which should have lasted a 
while longer — Ho matter! Yes, I accuse myself; it was I 
who made them stop. He took the place of the blacks. Just 
then his great dog, poor Rask ! sprang at my throat. He 
should have clung there an instant longer ! But Pierrot 
raised his hand, and the poor dog let me go. Bug-Jargal, how- 
ever, could not keep him from lying down at his feet. I 
thought then that you were dead, Captain. I was furious — 
I cried ” — 

“ The sergeant raised his hand, looked at the captain, but 
could not utter the fatal words. 

“ Bug-Jargal fell — a ball broke the paw of his dog — ever 
since then, gentlemen (and the sergeant shook his head 


188 


BUG-JARGAL. 


sadly), he has been lame. I heard groans in the woods, and 
running in their direction I found you, Captain ; you had been 
hit by a ball as you ran to save the great negro. Yes, Cap- 
tain, you groaned ; but it was for him ! Bug-Jargal was 
dead ! You, Captain, were carried to the camp ; your wound 
was not as serious as his, for you recovered, thanks to the 
care of Madame Marie.” 

The sergeant stopped. D’Auverney continued in a sad and 
solemn voice : — 

“ Bug-Jargal was dead ! ” 

Thadee lowered his head. 

u Yes,” he said ; “ and he had spared my life, and it was I 
who killed him ! ” 


NOTE. 

Most readers like to have some definite knowledge as to the fate of 
each of the personages in the story in which we have tried to interest 
them. With the wish to satisfy them on these points, we have looked 
into the after life of Captain Leopold d’Auverney, of his sergeant and 
his dog. The reader may perhaps remember that the captain’s sad 
melancholy came from two causes, the death of Bug-Jargal, or Pierrot, 
and the death of his dear Marie, who was saved from the burning Fort 
Galifet only to perish a short time afterwards in the first fire at the 
Cape. As to the captain himself, we have discovered the following 
data. 

On the day after a great battle, which was won by the soldiers of the 

French Republic over the Army of Europe, General-divisionary M , 

commander-in-chief, was alone in his tent, copying from the notes of his 
chief staff-officer the report of the victory, which was to be sent to the 
National Convention. An aide-de-camp had just told him that the 
representative sent by the people had asked to speak with him. The 
general hated these ambassadors in red caps, whom La Montagne 
deputed in the camps in order to degrade and destroy them, bribed 
informers, ordered by the hangmen to spy upon glory. But it would 
have been dangerous to refuse them admittance, especially after a 
victory. The bloody idol of those times loved illustrious victims ; and 
the sacrificers of the peace of the Revolution were happy when they 
could, with one blow, cut off a head and a crown, — were it only one 
of thorns, like that of Louis XYI. ; of flowers, like that of the young 


BUG-JABGAL. 


189 


girls of Verdun; or of laurel, like that of Custine and Andre Chenier. 
The general ordered that the representative he admitted. 

After some ambiguous and limited congratulations on the recent 
triumph of the Republican army, the representative, approaching the 
general, said in a low tone, — 

“ This is not all, Citizen-General ; it is not enough to conquer the 
enemy without, he must also be conquered within.” 

“What do you mean, Citizen-Representative?” asked the general, 
astonished. 

“ There is in your army,” the commissary of the Convention answered 
mysteriously, “ a captain, named Leopold d’Auverney ; he serves in 
the Thirty-second Regiment ; General, do you know him ? ” 

“Yes, indeed !” returned the general. “I have just been reading 
a report from the adjutant-general, commander of the Thirty-second 
Regiment, concerning him. The Thirty-second found him an excellent 
captain.” • 

“ What, Citizen-General ! ” exclaimed the representative haughtily, 
“ are you going to give him another rank ? ” 

“ I will not deny that such was my intention, Citizen-Representa- 
tive.” 

The commissary imperiously interrupted the general. 

“ Victory blinds you, General M ! Take care what you do and 

what you say. If you warm in your breast the serpents of the people, 
you may tremble lest the people crush you in crushing the serpents! 
This Leopold d’Auverney is an aristocrat, a counter-revolutionist, a 
Royalist, a Feuillant, a Girondin. Public justice claims him. You 
must give him up instantly.” 

“ The general replied coldly, — 

“I cannot.” 

“What, you cannot!” cried the commissary with increasing anger. 

“Do you forget, General M , that mine is the only limitless power 

here? The Republic commands you, and ‘you cannot!’ Listen to me. 
I will, on account of your success, read you the note I have received 
about this d’Auverney, and which I must forward with him to the 
public accuser. It is an extract from a list of names which you will not 
wish to force me to complete with yours. Listen: — 

‘“Leopold Auverney (formerly de), captain of the Thirty-second 
Regiment, is convicted, primo , of having related, in a meeting of con- 
spirators, a pretended counter-revolutionary story, tending to ridicule 
the principles of equality and liberty, and to praise the old ideas known 
under the names of royalty and religion ; convicted, secowdo, of having 
used expressions disapproved of by all good Republicans, to characterize 
various memorable events, notably the enfranchisement of the former 


190 


B UG-JARGAL. 


blacks of San Domingo ; accused, tertio , of having constantly used the 
term monsieur (gentleman) in his story, and never the term citoyen 
(citizen); finally, quarto , to have, by the aforesaid story, openly con- 
spired against the overthrow of the Republic to the advantage of the 
party of Girondins and Brissotists. He deserves death.’ Well, General, 
what do you say to that ? Shall you still protect this traitor ? Do you 
still hesitate to deliver over to punishment this enemy of the country ? ” 

“ ‘ This enemy of the country,’ ” replied the general, with dignity, 
“ sacrificed himself for her. To the extract from your report, I will an- 
swer by one from mine. Now it is your turn to listen: ‘Leopold d’Au- 
verney, captain of the Thirty-second Regiment, won the last victory 
which our men gained. A formidable redoubt had been established by 
the combined forces; it was the key to the battle, it had to be taken. 
The death of the man who first attacked it was certain. Captain 
d’Auverney sacrificed himself; he took the redoubt, was killed there, and 
we won. Sergeant Thadee, of the*Thirty-second, and a dog were found 
dead at his side. We would suggest to the National Convention to 
vote that Captain Leopold d’Auverney has served his country well.’ 
You see, Representative,” continued the general calmly, “ the difference 
between our letters; we will each send a list to the Convention. The 
same name will occur on both. You denounce it as the name of a 
traitor, I uphold it as that of a hero ; you consign him to disgrace, I 
to glory ; you have a scaffold erected, I a monument ; each one his 
own way. But it is fortunate that this brave soldier has escaped your 
punishment by dying in battle. Thank God! he whom you wish to 
kill is already dead. He did not wait for you.” 

The commissary, furious at seeing his conspiracy vanish with his 
conspirator, muttered between his teeth, — 

“ He is dead ! That is a pity ! ” 

The general heard the words, and cried indignantly, — 

“ Citizen-Representative of the people, there is still something left 
for you to do! Go and find the body of Captain d’Auverney among 
the rubbish of the redoubt. Who knows ? Perhaps the enemy’s bul- 
lets have saved the head of the corpse for the National Guillotine 1 ” 


Written in 1826. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 



PREFACE. 


The only preface to the first editions of this work, pub- 
lished at first without the author’s name, were the following 
lines : — 

“ There are two ways of accounting for the writing of this 
book : First, a bundle of torn, yellow papers was found, on 
which were written, in order, the last thoughts of a poor 
wretch ; second, there was a man, a dreamer, who was given 
to studying nature for the sake of art. He was a philoso- 
pher perhaps, or a poet, I know not just what; but he took 
hold of this fancy, or rather he let it take hold of him, and 
he could rid himself of it only by putting it into a book. 

“ These are the two theories, and the reader may choose the 
one which pleases him the better.” 

At the time of the publication of the book, the author did 
not think it wise to say too much. He preferred to wait, 
and see if his views were understood. They were ; and to- 
day he can unmask the political and social ideas which he 
wished to make popular in this innocent and clearly stated 
story. He declares, or rather he acknowledges frankly, that 
the Last Day of a Condemned Man is nothing more than a 
plea, direct or indirect as one pleases, for the abolishment of 
capital punishment. His idea was to make posterity see in his 
book, should they read it, not the special plea of such or such 
a convict, of such or such a criminal (which is always an easy 
and transient thing), but the general and permanent plea of 
all criminals, now and forever; it was the great right of 
humanity urged and pleaded by every voice before mankind, 
which is the highest court of appeals; it was the ultimate 

193 


194 


PREFACE. 


principle, abhorrescere a sanguine, established before the exis- 
tence of the criminal courts themselves ; it was the sombre 
and fatal question which trembles at the foundation of every 
capital prosecution, under the triple thickness of pathos with 
which the bloody rhetoric of the people of the king is covered ; 
it wa/s the question of life and death, I say, naked, unclothed, 
freed from the sonorous subterfuge of the court-room, cruelly 
brought into the light, laid where it can and must be seen, 
and where it really is, in its rightful place, its horrible place, 
not in the court-room, but on the scaffold, not before the judge, 
but before the hangman. 

This is what he aimed to do ; and if posterity should ever 
grant him the glory of having accomplished it, and he hardly 
dares hope that it will, he would ask for no other crown. 

He says, and he repeats it, that he works in the name of 
every possible prisoner, innocent or guilty, before every court, 
before every judge, every jury, and every feeling of justice. 
This book is dedicated to any and every judge. And that the 
plea may be as great as the cause, he had (and this is why 
the story was written as it is) to eliminate from the consid- 
eration of the subject the discussion of remote cause and inevi- 
table accident, 'particular case and special exception, precedent, 
mitigating circumstances, story, anecdote, issue, and title ; and 
limit it, if this is limiting, to pleading the condemned man’s 
cause, whensoever he be condemned and whatsoever be his 
crime. Happy, if without other instrument than his idea, 
he has searched sufficiently to make a heart bleed under the 
aes triplex of a judge ! Happy, if he has roused sympathy 
for those who believe themselves in the right ! Happy, if by 
searching deep within the heart of the judge, he has occa- 
sionally succeeded in finding a man ! 

When the book appeared, three years ago, there were some 
who imagined that it was worth while to question if the idea 
was the author’s. Some thought it was taken from an English 
book, others from an American. Strange mania, to look for 
the origin of things in a thousand places, and to make the 


PREFACE. 


195 


stream which runs through your street start from the mouths 
of the Nile ! No ! It was taken neither from an English nor 
an American nor a Chinese book. The author found the idea 
of The Last Day of a Condemned Man not in any book, — he 
is not in the habit of going so far for his ideas ; but he 
found it where you all may find it, where, perhaps, you have 
found it, (for who in his own mind has not written or 
dreamed of The Last Day of a Condemned Man?} on the 
public Place, on the Place de Greve. It was there that, 
passing by one day, he found the dread idea lying in *a pool 
of blood, beneath the crimson arms of the guillotine. 

Ever after, each time that at the will of the fatal Thurs- 
days, in the Court of Appeals, one of the days arrived when 
the cry of a death-sentence was heard in Paris ; every time 
that the author heard beneath his windows those hoarse 
criers calling the spectators to La Greve, — every time, the 
dread thought came back to him, took possession of him, 
filled his mind with gendarmes and hangmen, and crowds 
of spectators ; explained to him hour after hour the last 
agonies of the wretched sufferer, while he confesses, while 
his hair is cut off, while his hands are bound; called upon 
him, the poor poet, to tell it all to the world, which goes on 
unmindful, attending to its own affairs, while this frightful 
thing is taking place ; urged him, begged him, shook him, 
snatched away from him his humorous verses if he hap- 
pened to be writing, and killed them before they were half 
begun; stopped all his work, intercepted itself between him 
and all else, surrounded and beset him on all sides. It was 
a torture, — a torture which began with the dawn, and which 
lasted, like that of the wretch who was being murdered at 
that very moment, until four o'clock. Only then, when the 
ponens caput expiravit , announced by the fatal voice of the 
clock, was the author able to breathe again, and find some 
peace of mind. Finally, one day, — it was, he thinks, the one 
after the execution of Ulbach, — he began to write this book. 
From that moment he found comfort. When one of those 


196 


PREFACE. 


public crimes, called legal executions , was committed, his con- 
science told him that he was not conjointly liable ; and he no 
longer felt that drop of blood on his forehead which spurted 
from La Greve upon the head of every member of the social 
community. 

But this was not enough. To wash one’s hands is good, 
but to stop the flow of the blood is better. 

He knows no higher, no holier, no nobler aim than this, — to 
strive for the abolishment of capital punishment. And it 
is from his heart that he adheres to the wishes aud the ef- 
forts of the generous men of every nation, who for several 
years have worked to overthrow the gallows, the only tree 
which is not uprooted by the Revolution. It is with joy that 
it comes his turn, his, the poor poet, to apply his axe, and 
enlarge as much as possible the gash made by Beccaria, sixty 
years ago, on the old gallows which has stood for so many 
centuries over Christendom. 

We have said that the scaffold is the only thing which 
Revolutionists do not demolish. It is seldom indeed that 
a revolution spares human life ; and coming, as it does, 
to prune, cut, hack, and behead society, capital punishment 
is one of the instruments which it is most loath to give 
up. 

We will admit, however, that if ever a revolution seemed 
to us worthy and capable of abolishing capital punishment, it 
was the Revolution of July. It seems to belong to the 
kindest popular movement of modern times to blot out the 
barbarous punishment of Louis XI., Richelieu, and Robe- 
spierre, and to inscribe on the face of the law the sacred- 
ness of human life. 1830 deserved to break the chopper 
of ’93. 

We hoped so for an instant. In August, 1830, there was 
so much generosity, such a spirit of gentleness and progress 
among the people, and their hearts were looking forward to 
such a bright future, that it seemed as if, from the very first, 
capital punishment were abolished from a sense of justice, and 


PREFACE. 


197 


by a tacit and general consent, like the other evils which had 
annoyed us. The people had just made a bonfire of the rub- 
bish of the ancient regime. These were the bloody rags. 
We thought they had been burned in the pile, like the others. 
And for several weeks, confident and credulous, we trusted in 
the future, and in the sacredness of life as in the sacredness 
of liberty. 

Scarcely had two months elapsed before an attempt was 
made to dissolve the sublime legal Utopia of Cesar Bone- 
sana. 

Unfortunately the attempt was awkward, clumsy, almost 
hypocritical, and was made in other interests than the general 
one. 

In October of the year 1830, we remember, that a few days 
after the Chamber had set aside, by^order of the day, the prop- 
osition to bury Napoleon under the column, every member 
began to cry and scream. The question of capital punish- 
ment was again brought on the tapis, on which occasion we 
were going to say something, when it seemed that every fibre 
of every lawyer was seized with a sudden and wonderful pity 
for any one who spoke or groaned, or raised his hands to 
heaven. Capital punishment, great God ! what a horrible 
thing ! One old attorney-general grew pale in his scarlet robe, 
he who all his life had eaten bread that had been soaked in 
the blood of the requisitors, and all at once raised a piteous 
cry, and called the gods to witness that he was indignant at 
the guillotine. For two days the court-house was filled with 
crying haranguers. It was a lamentation, a myriology, a 
concert of lugubrious psalms, a “ Super flumina Babylonis ” 
a Stabat Mater Dolorosa, a great symphony in C, with cho- 
ruses sung by the entire orchestra of orators who occupied the 
front row of benches in the chamber, and made such beautiful 
speeches on great occasions. One came with his bass, another 
with his falsetto. Nothing was wanting. The affair could 
not have been more pitiful or pathetic. The night session, 
in particular, was as tender, paternal, and heartrending as the 


198 


PREFACE. 


fifth act of Lachaussee. The kind public, which understood 
nothing of it, had tears in its eyes . 1 

What, then, was the question ? The abolishment of capital 
punishment ? 

Yes and no. 

These are the facts. 

Four society men, men of good social standing, such as one 
meets in a drawing-room, and with whom perhaps one ex- 
changes civilities, — four of these men, I say, had attempted, 
in the high political circles, one of those bold deeds which 
Bacon calls crimes , and which Machiavelli calls enterprises. 
But whichever they are, the law, cruel to all, punishes them 
with death. And the four gentlemen were taken prisoners, 
captives of the law, and were guarded by three hundred 
tricolored cockades beneath the beautiful ogives of Vincennes. 
What was to be done, and how go about it ? You can readily 
see that it was impossible to send to La Greve, in a wagon, 
ignobly bound with great ropes, and sitting back to back with 
the officer whose title we must even refrain from mentioning, 
four men like you or me, four society men. If there were 
a mahogany guillotine — ! 

Well ! There was nothing to do but to abolish capital 
punishment ! 

Thereupon the Chamber set to work to do it. 

Note, gentlemen, that even yesterday you discussed abolish- 
ing this theoretical, imaginary, foolish, poetical Utopia. Re- 
member that this is not the first time we have tried to call 
your attention to the prison-wagon, and the thick ropes, and 
the horrible scarlet machine, and that it is strange that this 
hideous apparatus all at once springs before your eyes. 

Bah ! This is indeed the question ! It is not on your 
account, People, that we abolish capital punishment, but on 

1 We do not pretend to look with the ‘same scorn upon all that was said at 
this time in the Chamber. Now and then, kind and generous words were 
spoken. We, like every one else, applauded the dignified and simple speech 
of Monsieur de Lafayette, and at another time the remarkable words of 
Monsieur Villemain. 


PREFACE. 


199 


our own account, as deputies, and men who may in time be 
ministers. We do not want the dreadful guillotine to kill 
our higher classes. We overthrow it. So much the better, if 
that accommodates every one ; but we have thought only of 
ourselves. Ucalegon burns. We extinguish the fire. Quick, 
suppress the hangmen, blot out the law. 

Thus it is that an alloy of egoism alters and changes the 
most beautiful social combinations. It is the black vein in 
the white marble ; it runs everywhere, and suddenly appears 
every moment beneath the chisel. Your statue must be done 
over. 

Surely it is not necessary for us to state here, that we are 
not of those who demanded the heads of the four ministers. 
As soon as these unfortunate men were imprisoned, our indig- 
nant anger, roused by their criminal attempts, changed, as 
did that of the world at large, into a profound pity. We 
remembered the education of some of them, the slightly de- 
veloped brain of their leader, a fanatical and obstinate relapser 
of the conspiracies of 1804, grown gray before his time under 
the damp shade of the state-prisons ; we remembered the fatal 
necessity of their common position, the impossibility of stop- 
ping on that rapid slide upon which the monarchy had thrown 
itself headlong, the 8th of August, 1829, the influence of the 
royal person, which we did not, until then, sufficiently real- 
ize, and especially the dignity spread by one of them, like a 
purple cloak, over their misfortune. We are of those who 
wished most sincerely that their lives might be spared, and 
who were ready to devote themselves toward this end. If 
ever, by any impossibility, it should happen that their scaffold 
was erected some day on the Place de Greve, we will not 
doubt, — and if it is an illusion, we wish to keep it, — we will 
not doubt but that there would be a riot to overthrow it, and 
that he who writes these lines would be in this righteous riot. 
For, it must be admitted also, that at a time of social crises, 
of all the scaffolds, the political one is the most abominable, 
the most wicked, the most harmful, the most necessary to have 


200 


PREFACE. 


abolished. This kind of guillotine takes root in the pavement, 
and in a short time pushes forth its shoots at every point. 

At the time of a revolution, look out for the first head that 
falls. It whets the people’s appetite. 

We were then personally in accord with those who wanted 
to save the four ministers, and for every reason, sentimental 
as well as political. Only we would have preferred the 
Chamber to choose another time for proposing the abolish- 
ment of capital punishment. 

If this longed-for abolishment had been suggested, not on 
account of the four ministers who had fallen from the Tuile- 
ries to Vincennes, but on account of one of the poor fellows 
whom you hardly notice when they pass you in the street, to 
whom you do not speak, whose dusty elbow you instinctively 
avoid, — - the poor fellows who in childhood ran ragged and 
barefooted in the mud of the streets, shivering on the wharves 
in winter, warming themselves at the vent-holes of the kitchen 
of Monsieur Vefour with whom you dine, routing out here 
and there a crust of bread from the ash-heaps, which they 
have to wipe off before eating, scraping the stream all day 
long with a nail to find a liard, and with only the free show 
of the King’s fete and the executions at La Greve, the only 
other free show, for amusement; poor devils, whom hunger 
drives to theft, and theft to what comes after ; children 
disinherited by a harsh society, whom the house of correction 
takes at the age of twelve, the galleys at eighteen, and the 
scaffold at forty ; poor wretches whom you could make good, 
moral, and useful by means of a school and a workshop, but 
whom you do not know what to do with, as you turn them 
over like a useless bundle, now on the red ant-hill of Toulon, 
now in the still enclosure of Clamart, cutting off life after 
having taken away their liberty, — if it were in regard to one 
of these men that you had proposed to abolish capital pun- 
ishment, oh, then your session would indeed have been good 
and great, holy, majestic, and to be venerated. Since the 
august fathers of Thirty, who invited the heretics to their 


PREFACE. 


201 


council in the name of God’s entrails, per viscera Dei , because 
they hoped for their conversion, quoniam sancta sy nodus sperat 
hcereticorum conversionem , never did an assembly of men pre- 
sent to the world a more sublime, more illustrious, and more 
pitiful spectacle. It has always belonged to the truly great 
and strong to care for the weak and feeble. A council of 
Brahmins would be beautiful taking up the cause of the 
paria ; and in this case the cause of the paria was the cause 
of the people. By abolishing capital punishment on this 
account, and without waiting until you are interested in the 
question, you would accomplish more than a political act, 
you would do a social act. 

But you have not even accomplished a political act, in 
trying to abolish it, not in order to abolish it, but in order to 
save four wretched ministers who put their hands upon state 
policies ! 

What happened ? As you were not sincere, the populace 
became defiant. When they saw that you wished to fool 
them, they grew angry against the whole question, and, 
strange fact ! they took sides and argued for that capital 
punishment, the whole burden of which they supported. It 
was your awkwardness that brought them to this. By not 
being perfectly frank, you compromised the question for a 
long time. You were playing a comedy, and they hissed it. 

But some wits had the kindness to take this farce seriously. 
Immediately after the famous session, the order had been 
given to the attorney-generals by a keeper of the seals, an 
honest man, to suspend all capital punishment indefinitely. 
Apparently it was a great step. Those opposed to capital 
punishment breathed again. But the illusion did not last 
long. 

The trial of the ministers was brought to a close. Some 
sentence, I do not know what, was pronounced. The four 
lives were spared. Ham was chosen as the happy medium 
between death and liberty. These various arrangements once 
made, all fear vanished in the minds of the statesmen ; and 


202 


PREFACE. 


with the fear, humanity disappeared. It was no longer a 
question of abolishing capital punishment ; and once without 
need of her, Utopia became Utopia again; theory, theory; 
poetry, poetry. 

There always had been in the prisons, however, some unfor- 
tunate convicts who, for five or six months, had walked about 
in the yards, breathing the air, calm, sure of living, taking 
their respite for their pardon. But wait. 

The hangman had had a great fright. The day when he 
had heard our lawmakers speak of humanity, philanthropy, 
progress, he thought himself lost; and he hid, the wretch, 
he cowered down under his guillotine, ill at ease in the July 
heat, like a night-bird in daylight, trying to make himself 
forgotten, stopping up his ears, and not daring to breathe. He 
was not seen for six months. But he had been listening ; and 
he had not heard the Chamber utter his name, nor any of 
those great expressions* of which he was so afraid. No more 
commentaries on the “ Treatise on Crimes and Punishment.” 
They were occupied with entirely different things, of great 
importance, such as a parochial road, a subsidy for the Opera 
Comique, or a payment of one hundred thousand francs on an 
apoplectic budget of fifteen hundred millions. No one thought 
of him, the hangman. Seeing which, he becomes calm, he 
puts his head out of his hole, and looks about on every side ; 
he takes one step, then two, like the mouse in La Fontaine ; 
then he ventures, out suddenly from under his scaffold; he 
springs up, mends it, restores it, polishes, caresses it, makes 
it work and shine, and sets about oiling the old rusty machine 
that has become out of order through disuse. All at once he 
turns, seizes by the hair, from the first prison he reaches, one 
of the poor wretches who have been counting on living, drags 
him out, strips him, binds him down, and — behold ! the 
executions are begun again ! 

All this is horrible, but it is history. 

Yes, the unhappy captives had a respite of six months ; but 
their punishment was gratuitously aggravated in this way. 


PREFACE. 


203 


Then, for no reason or necessity, without knowing why, for 
pleasure alone , the respite was revoked one fine morning, and 
all these human beings were coldly submitted to a systematic 
execution. Well, great God! I ask you, what harm would it 
have done us had they lived ? Is there not enough air in 
France for every one to breathe ? 

One day a miserable clerk of the chancellor, it matters not 
who, rose from his chair, saying : “ Come ! no one thinks any 
more about the abolishment of capital punishment. It is 
time to return to the guillotine ! ” The heart of that man 
must have been made of stone. 

Moreover, never have executions been accompanied by more 
atrocities than since the revocation of the respite of July. 
Never has the story of La Greve been more revolting, never 
has it better proved the wickedness of capital punishment. 
This increased cruelty is the just punishment of the men who 
brought back the law of blood with a vengeance. May they 
be punished by their own deeds ! It would only be right. 

We must cite here two or three examples of the frightful 
and impious acts connected with some executions. It would 
make the wives of the public prosecutors nervous. A woman 
sometimes has a conscience. 

In the South, toward the close of last September (we are 
not quite sure of the place, day, or the name of the condemned 
man ; but they can all be found if proof is needed, and we 
think that it was at Pamiers) — toward the close of Septem- 
ber, a man was found in prison, quietly playing at cards. He 
was told that he must die in two hours, which announcement 
made him tremble in every limb, for he had been forgotten 
for six months, and had grown to think that he would not 
have to die. He was shaved, bound, confessed ; then they took 
him in a wheelbarrow between four gendarmes, through the 
crowd, to the place of execution. Up to this point nothing 
could have been simpler. It was the usual way of doing 
such things. When they reached the scaffold, the hangman 
received him from the priest, led him aside, bound him to the 


204 


PREFACE. 


seesaw, put him into the oven , so to speak (here I use the 
slang expression), then let down the chopper. The heavy 
iron triangle rose with difficulty, fell with jerks into its 
grooves, and (here the horrors begin) mangled the man, but 
did not kill him. The victim gave a fearful shriek. The 
hangman, disconcerted, raised the chopper and let it fall a 
second time. Again it cut the victim’s neck, but did not be- 
head him. He gave a fearful groan, and the crowd groaned 
too. The hangman once more raised the chopper, hoping 
the third time for success. Not so. The third blow brought 
out a third river of blood from the victim’s neck, but did not 
cut off his head. Let us abridge the story. The chopper 
rose and fell five times ; five times it struck the man’s neck, 
five times he shrieked out beneath the blow, raising his head, 
and crying for mercy ! The indignant populace seized some 
stones, and began throwing them at the hangman. The latter 
fled under the guillotine, and crouched down behind the 
horses of the gendarmes. But this is not all. The victim, 
seeing that he was alone on the scaffold, rose and stood there, 
a fearful sight, dripping with blood, trying to hold up his 
half-severed head, which hung down over his shoulder, and 
imploring them with feeble moans to untie him. The people, 
filled with pity, were on the point of calling the gendarmes, 
and coming to the aid of the unhappy wretch who five times 
had suffered his death-sentence, when a valet of the hang- 
man, a young man of twenty, mounted the scaffold, told the 
victim to turn over that he might unbind him, and then, 
taking advantage of the dying man’s defenceless position, 
he jumped on his back, and began with difficulty to hack, 
with a butcher’s knife, at what still remained of his neck. 
All this happened. All this was seen. It is all true. 

According to law, a judge should have been present at the 
execution. He could have put a stop to it all by a gesture. 
What was he doing, then, leaning back in his carriage, while 
a man was being massacred ? What was he doing, this 
punisher of murderers, while in broad daylight, under his 


PREFACE. 


205 


very eyes, under his horse’s nostrils, under his carriage- 
window, a man was being murdered ? 

And the judge was not put on trial ! and the hangman was 
not put on trial ! and no court made inquiries about that 
monstrous violation of every law on the sacred person of one 
of God’s creatures ! 

In the seventeenth century, in the barbarous epoch of the 
criminal law, under Richelieu, under Christopher Fouquet, 
when Monsieur de Chalais was put to death before le Bouffay 
of Nantes by a clumsy soldier, — who, instead of a sword- 
thrust, gave him thirty-four blows 1 with a cooper’s adze, — at 
least this appeared irrregular to the Parliament of Paris : 
there was an investigation and a trial ; and although Richelieu 
was not punished, although Christopher Fouquet was not 
punished, the soldier was. An injustice, no doubt, but under- 
neath everything it was right. 

In this case, nothing was done. The thing occurred after 
July, at a time of peace and great progress, a j^ear after the 
celebrated lamentation of the Chamber on capital punish- 
ment. Well ! The fact passed absolutely unobserved. The 
Paris paper published it as an anecdote. No one troubled 
himself about it. They merely knew that the guillotine had 
been purposely put out of order by some one who wished to 
injure the executor of noble deeds. It was the hangman’s 
valet, who had been dismissed from service by his employer, 
and who avenged himself in this way. 

It was only a trick. Let us continue. 

At Dijon, three months ago, a woman was to be executed, 
(a woman ! ). This time also the knife of Doctor Guillotine 
did poor service. The head was not completely severed ; so 
the hangman’s valets took hold of the woman’s feet, and in 
spite of the victim’s shrieks, they pulled and tugged, and 
finally succeeded in jerking the head from the body. 

At Paris, we return to the time of the secret executions. 

1 La Porte says twenty-two, but Aubery thirty-four. De Chalais shrieked 
until the twentieth. 


206 


PREFACE. 


As they have not dared to behead on La Greve since July, 
being cowards and afraid, this is what is done. They recently 
took from Bicetre a man who was condemned to die, Desan- 
drieux by name, I think ; he was placed in a sort of basket 
drawn on two wheels, closed on all sides, locked and bolted ; 
then, a gendarme in front and a gendarme at the rear, with 
little noise and no crowd, the basket was placed on the de- 
serted square of Saint- Jacques. It was then eight o’clock in 
the morning, scarcely day, but a guillotine had been newly 
erected for the public, some dozen or more little boys who 
clustered on the piles of stones about the unlooked-for ma- 
chine ; quickly they dragged the man from the basket, and 
without giving him time to breathe, stealthily, slyly, shame- 
fully, they cut off his head. That, they call a public and 
solemn act of justice. Infamous irony ! 

What do the people of the king understand by the word 
“ civilization ” ? To what have we come ? Justice debased 
by stratagem and fraud ! The law by compromises ! Mon- 
strous ! 

It is, indeed, a fearful thing for society to treat a man con- 
demned to die as though he were a traitor ! 

But let us be just ; the execution was not entirely secret. 
In the morning, on the cross-ways of Paris, they shouted and 
sold, as usual, the death-sentence. It seems that there are 
people who mak,e their living in this way. You undertsand 
what I mean, do you not ? From an unfortunate man’s 
crime, from his punishment, his agony, his tortures, a com- 
modity is made, a paper which they sell for one sou. Can 
you imagine anything more hideous than this sou corroded 
with blood ? Who is there who would pick it up ? 

These are enough facts, and too many. And are they not 
all horrible ? 

What have you to say in favor of capital punishment ? 

We ask the question seriously ; and we ask it in order 
to obtain an answer ; we put it to those who are well- versed 
in criminal law, not to literary haranguers. We know that 


PREFACE. 


207 


there are those who take the good of capital punishment as 
a text for a parody like any other theme. There are others 
who advocate capital punishment only because they hate 
such or such an one who opposes it. For them it is a quasi- 
literary question, a question of persons, of proper names. 
These are the envious, who are as far from being good law- 
yers as great artists. Joseph Grippas are no nearer to the 
Filangieri, than the Torregiani to the Michelangelos, and the 
Scuderys to the Corneilles. 

It is not to them that we speak, but to the men of law, 
properly so-called, to the logicians, to the reasoners, to those 
who like capital punishment for its beauty, its goodness, its 
mercy. 

How let them give their reasons. 

Those who judge and condemn say that capital punishment 
is necessary. In the first place, because they must remove 
from society one who has already harmed it, and who can 
harm it again. If this is all, life-imprisonment would suffice. 
Of what use is death ? You say that one can escape from 
a prison ? Make your patrol better. If you do not trust in 
iron bars, how do you dare to have menageries ? 

Ho hangman is needed where the jailer is enough. 

But, they say, society must avenge itself ; society must 
punish. Heither the one nor the other. To avenge belongs 
to the individual ; punishment, to God. 

Society is between the two. Punishment is above her ; ven- 
geance, beneath. She uses nothing so great or so small. She 
should not " punish to avenge herself ; ” she should “ correct 
to make better Transform the formula of those versed in 
criminal law into this, and we would understand it and abide 
by it. 

The third and last reason is left, the theory of example. 
Examples must be made ! We must frighten, by the sight of 
the fate reserved for criminals, those who are tempted to fol- 
low in their footsteps ! That is almost word for word the 
eternal phrase of which every requisitory of the five hundred 


208 


PREFACE. 


platforms of France are only more or less sonorous variations. 
Well! We deny, in the first place, that it is an example. 
We deny that the sight of punishment produces the desired 
effect. Far from edifying the people, it demoralizes them, 
it destroys their every feeling, and therefore their every 
virtue. There are many proofs, but our argument would be 
overcrowded if we were to cite them. We will mention 
merely one fact among a thousand, because it is the latest. 
It occurred ten days previous to the time we are writing. 
It was March 5th, the last day of the carnival. At Saint- 
Pol, immediately after the execution of an incendiary named 
Louis Camus, a group of masked men came and danced 
around the still reeking scaffold. So, make examples ! The 
Mardi-Gras will laugh in your face ! 

If, in spite of experience, you still hold to your usual theory 
of example, then bring back the sixteenth century, be really 
formidable; bring back the various modes of punishment, 
bring back Farinacci, bring back the cross-examining juries; 
bring back the gallows, the wheel, the funeral-pile, the strap- 
pado (rack), the cutting-machine, the quartering, the ditch in 
which people were buried alive, the vat in which they were 
boiled alive ; bring back to every street in Paris, as though it 
were an ppen shop among others, the hideous butcher’s stall of 
the hangman, constantly covered with quivering flesh. Bring 
back Montfaucon, with its sixteen pillars of stone, its rough 
sessions, its caves of bones, its motes, its hooks, its chains, its 
carcasses, its tower of plaster dotted with ravens, its branch- 
ing gallows, and the odor of dead bodies that the north-east 
wind wafts in large gusts across the entire Faubourg du Tem- 
ple. Bring back in its permanence and power this gigantic 
penthouse of the Paris hangman. Yes ! Here is an exam- 
ple indeed. Here is capital punishment that is understood. 
Here is a system of punishment of some importance. There 
is something horrible in it, and terrible too. 

Or, do as is done in England. In England, which is a com- 
mercial country, a smuggler is arrested on the coast of Dover ; 


PREFACE. 


209 


he is arrested as an example , and as an example he is left 
hanging to the gallows ; but as the bad air spoils the body, 
the latter is carefully wrapped in linen which is coated with 
tar, that it may not have to be renewed very often. O land 
of economy ! To tar those who are hanged ! 

But, nevertheless, this is somewhat logical. It is the most 
humane way of understanding the theory of example. 

But do you really, seriously believe that you make an 
example when you wretchedly slaughter a poor man in the 
most deserted spot of the outside boulevards ? On the Greve, 
in broad daylight, it may pass ; but on the square at Saint- 
Jacques ! At eight o’clock in the morning ! Who is passing 
there ? Who ever goes by there ? Who knows that you are 
killing a man ? For whom is it an example ? For the trees 
of the boulevard apparently. 

Do you not see that your public executions are done stealth- 
ily ? Do you not see that you hide yourselves ? That you 
are afraid and ashamed of your deed ? That you stammer 
absurdly over your discite justitiam moniti ? That at heart 
you are troubled, abashed, restless, less sure of being right, 
won over by the general doubt, that you are cutting off heads 
mechanically, without knowing very well what you are doing ? 
Do you not feel in your innermost heart that you have at least 
lost the moral and social idea of the mission of blood which 
your predecessors, the old lawmakers, carried out with a quiet 
conscience ? At night, do you not turn your head over on 
your pillow oftener than they? Others before you have 
advocated capital punishment ; but they believed they were in 
the right, that it was just and good. Jouvenel des Ursins 
thought himself a judge ; Elie de Thorrette thought himself 
a judge; Laubardemont, La Beynie, and Laffemas considered 
themselves judges ; you, in your innermost soul, are not sure 
that you are not assassins! 

You leave the Greve for Saint-Jacques, the crowd for soli- 
tude, daylight for twilight. You do not carry on openly 
what you do. You hide, I tell you ! 


210 


PREFACE. 


Every reason for capital punishment, then, is overthrown. 
Every syllogism of the platform is set at naught, all the 
shavings of a requisition are swept away and reduced to 
ashes. The- slightest touch of logic destroys all poor rea- 
soning. 

Let the people of the king no longer come and ask heads 
from us as jurymen, from us as men, calling on us, in a soft 
voice, in the name of the society to be protected, the public 
prosecution to be assured, the examples to be made. 

It is all mere rhetoric, bombast, nothing ! A prick of a pin 
on these hyperboles, and you bring down the swelling. Be- 
neath this soft-sounding talk, you find only hardness of heart, 
cruelty, barbarity, the desire to show one’s zeal, the necessity 
of gaining one’s salary. Keep silent, mandarins ! Beneath 
the judge’s velvet paw are felt the nails of the hangman. 

It is hard to think in cold blood of what a criminal public 
prosecutor is. He is a man who makes his living by sending 
others to the scaffold. He is the official purveyor of places 
like La Greve. He is a gentleman who has some pretension 
to style and learning ; who is a good speaker, or thinks he is ; 
who can recite a Latin verse when necessary, or two, before 
carrying out a death-sentence ; who strives after effect ; who 
interests his amour-propre , O misery ! where are involved the 
lives of others ; who has his own models, his desperate types 
to copy, his classics, his Bellart, his Marchangy, as one poet 
has Racine or another Boileau. In an argument, he takes the 
side of the guillotine; this is his role , his province. His 
requisitory is his literary work ; he embellishes it with meta- 
phors, he perfumes it with quotations, it must be beautiful for 
the audience, and pleasing to the ladies. He has his baggage 
of commonplaces still new for the province, his fine points of 
elocution, his expressions, his literary style. 

He hates the proper word almost as much as do our tragic 
poets of Delille’s school. Do not fear that he will call things 
by their name, pooh ! For any idea of nudity to which you 
may object he has a complete disguise of epithets and adjec- 


PREFACE. 


211 


tives. He makes Monsieur Sanson presentable. He glosses 
over the chopper. He stumps the seesaw. He twists the 
red basket into a paraphrase. You no longer know what it 
is. It is sweet-sounding and decent. Can you picture him 
at night, in his office, composing at his ease, and to the best 
of his ability, the harangue which will raise a scaffold in six 
weeks ? Do you see him sweating with blood and perspira- 
tion to fit the head of an accused man into the most fatal 
article of the code of law ? Do you see him cutting off a 
wretch’s head with a poorly made law ? See how he inserts 
into a mess of tropes and synecdoches two or three poisonous 
texts, in order to express and extract at great pains the death 
of a man. Is it not true that while he writes, he probably 
has the hangman crouching at his feet, beneath his table, in 
the dark ; and that he stops writing from time to time to say 
to him, like a master to his dog, “ Lie still there ! Lie still ! 
You shall have your bone ” ? 

In his private life this public man may be an honest fellow, 
a good father, a good son, a kind husband and friend, as all 
the epithets of Pere-Lachaise read. 

Let us hope that the day is at hand when the law will 
abolish these mournful duties. The atmosphere of our civili- 
zation alone should use capital punishment. 

One is sometimes tempted to believe that the advocates of 
capital punishment have not carefully reflected on what it is. 
But weigh in the scales of some crime this exorbitant right 
which society takes upon herself to remove, what she has not 
given, this punishment, this most irreparable of irreparable 
punishments ! 

Of two cases this is one : — 

The man whom you kill has no family, no relatives, no 
friends. In this case he has had no education, no instruc- 
tion, neither care for his mind nor for his heart ; then, by what 
right do you kill this poor orphan ? You punish him because 
in his childhood he crept on the ground without help and 
without a protector ! You ascribe to him, as a forfeit, the 


212 


PREFACE. 


isolation in which you have left him. You make a crime of 
his misfortune ! No one taught him to know what he was 
doing. The man is ignorant. His fault is in his destiny, 
not in him. You kill an innocent man. Or, the man has a 
family ; and then do you think that the blow by which you 
kill him hurts him alone ? that his father, his mother, his 
children will not be disgraced ? No. In killing him, you 
behead his whole family. And here, again, you kill innocent 
beings. 

Awkward and blind penalty which, turn where it may, 
kills the innocent ! 

Imprison this man, this criminal with a family. In his 
cell he can still work for his own. But how can he provide 
for them in the depths of the tomb ? And can you think 
without shuddering of what will become of his little boys, 
his little girls, whose father, and consequently their bread, 
you take away ? Are you counting on this family from 
which to supply, after fifteen years, the galleys from the 
boys, the low music-hall from the girls ? Oh, the poor little 
innocents ! 

In the colonies, when a slave receives capital punishment, a 
thousand francs indemnity are given to the man’s master. 
What ! you indemnify the master, and not the family ! Here, 
again, do you not take a man from those who own him ? Is 
he not, by a more sacred right than that of the slave to 
the master, the property of his father, his wife, his chil- 
dren ? 

AVe have already convicted your law of assassination. 
Now, here it is convicted of robbery. 

Still another point. Do you think of the man’s soul ? Do 
you know its condition ? Do you dare to despatch it so 
freely ? Formerly, at least, the people had some faith ; at 
the final moment the feeling of religion that was in the air 
softened the most hard-hearted ; a victim was at the same 
time a penitent ; religion opened one life to him as society 
closed the other; every soul had a knowledge of God; the 


PREFACE. 


213 


scaffold was but the outer gate of heaven. But what hope do 
you place on the scaffold, now that the mass has no more 
faith ? now that every religion is attacked by the dry-rot, 
like the old ships which lie unheeded in our ports, and 
which once discovered, perhaps, worlds ? now that little chil- 
dren ridicule God ? By what right do you undertake some- 
thing in which you yourselves doubt the dark souls of your 
condemned, such souls as Voltaire and Monsieur Pigault- 
Lebrun have made them ? You deliver them into the hands 
of the priest of the prison, an excellent old man, no doubt ; 
but does he believe, and will he make them believe ? Does 
he not make drudgery of his sublime task ? Do you con- 
sider him a priest, this good man who jostles against the 
hangman in the wagon ? A writer of soul and talent has 
said before us : “It is a horrible thing to keep the hangman , 
after having sent away the confessor ! ” 

Those, no doubt, are nothing but “ sentimental reasons,” 
some scornful people may say whose logic comes only from 
their head. To our mind these are the best. We often 
prefer reasons of sentiment to reasons of judgment. More- 
over, the two are always connected ; remember that. “ The 
Treatise on Crimes ” is grafted upon the “ Spirit of the Law.” 
Montesquieu engendered Beccaria. 

Reason is on our side, feeling is on our side, experience is 
on our side. In the model states where capital punishment 
is abolished, the number of capital crimes decreases year after 
year. Think of this. 

However, Ave do not ask for a sudden and absolute abolish- 
ment of capital punishment at once, as was so thoughtlessly 
advocated by the Chamber of Deputies. On the contrary, we 
desire every precaution and all possible prudence. Moreover, 
we seek not merely the abolishment of capital punishment, 
we want a complete change of the punishment in all its 
forms, from the highest to the lowest, from the lock to the 
chopper ; and time is an element which should enter into such 
an undertaking, in order that it may be well done. So, on 


214 


PREFACE. 


this subject, we hope to develop the system of ideas which we 
consider practicable. But aside from the partial abolishment 
in the case of counterfeit money, incendiary, so-called rob- 
beries, etc., we ask that from now on, in every* capital ques- 
tion, the president put this question to the jury : “ Was the 
accused moved by passion or by interest ? ” and that in case 
of the jury’s replying, “ The accused acted from passion,” 
that he be not condemned to death. This, at least, would 
spare us some revolting executions. Ulbach and Debacker 
would be saved. Othello would no longer be guillotined. 

Furthermore, that one may not be deceived, this question 
of capital punishment is developing daily. Before long all 
society will think as we do. 

Let the most obstinate criminal lawyers pay attention to 
the fact that, for a century, capital punishment has been mod- 
erating. It is almost a mild thing now, which shows it is 
growing weak, and feeble, and approaching death. Torture 
has disappeared. The wheel has gone. The gallows has 
gone. Strange fact that the guillotine is a step toward pro- 
gression. 

Monsieur Guillotine was a philanthropist. 

Yes, the horrible, voracious Themis, with her long teeth, the 
Themis of Farinace and Vouglaus, Delancre and Isaac Loisel, 
Oppede and Machauet, is growing weak. She is wasting away 
and dying. 

La Greve wants her no more. La Greve wants to reinstate 
herself. The old drinker of blood acted nobly in July. She 
wants now to lead a better life, and to prove herself worthy 
of her last beautiful act. She, who for three centuries has 
been prostituted to every scaffold, is covered with shame. 
She blushes at her old career. She wishes to forget her 
evil name. She repels the hangman. She washes her pave- 
ment. 

Even now capital punishment is carried on outside of 
Paris. And let us emphasize the fact here, that to go out- 
side of Paris is to go beyond civilization. 


PREFACE. 


215 


The symptoms all appear to be favorable to us. It seems, 
too, that this hideous machine is disheartened and glum, this 
monster of wood and iron, which is to Guillotine what Galatea 
is to Pygmalion. Looked at from one standpoint, the fearful 
executions which we have described above are good signs. 
The guillotine hesitates. She fails to strike. The old scaf- 
fold for capital punishment is out of order. 

The infamous machine will leave France, we are sure ; and 
if God is willing, she will leave it limping, for we shall try 
and give her some hard blows. 

Let her seek hospitality elswhere, from some barbarous 
people; not in Turkey, which is growing civilized, nor among 
the savages, who do not want her (the Parliament of Otahiti 
has just abolished capital punishment) ; but let her descend 
several more rounds of the ladder of civilization ; let her go 
to Spain or to Russia. 

The social edifice of the past rests on three columns, — the 
priest, the king, and the hangman. Long ago a voice cried : 
“ The gods will it ! ” Later a voice shouted : “ The kings will 
it ! ” It is time now for a third voice to cry : “ The hangman 
wills it ! ” 

Thus the ancient structure of society will fall, stone after 
stone ; thus Providence will complete the crumbling of the 
past. 

To those who regret the gods, we may therefore say, “ God 
remains.” To those who regret the laws, “ The country 
remains.” To those who regret the hangman, we have noth- 
ing to say. 

FTor will order disappear with the hangman ; do not think 
this. The arch of future society will not fall for not 
having this hideous keystone. Civilization is nothing but a 
series of successive changes. Which one are you going to 
help ? The change of punishment. The gentle law of 
Christ will penetrate our laws after a while, and will shine 
through them. Crime will be looked upon as a malady ; and 
it will have its physicians in place of your judges, its hospi- 


216 


PREFACE. 


tals instead of your prisons. Liberty and health will be one. 
They will pour balm and oil where the iron and fire have 
left scars. It will be simple and sublime. The cross will 
take the place of the gallows. That is all. 


March 15, 1832. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


A COMEDY. 


(Apropos of a Tragedy. 1 ) 


DRAMATIS PERSONAS. 


Madame de Blinval. 

A Chevalier. 

Ergaste. 

A Writer of Funeral Poems. 
A Philosopher. 


A Stout Gentleman. 
A Thin Gentleman. 
Ladies. 

A Lackey. 


A Drawing-room. 


The Writer of Funeral Poems (reading). 

“ Upon the morrow steps were heard within the forest-glade; 

A dog barked low beside the stream ; and when the little maid 
Returned, alas ! her bower to find, her heart was filled with fear ; 
For o’er the ancient citadel sad groans assailed her ear; 

And never more, oh, gentle maid ! oh, gentle maid Isaure ! 

Shall sing thy minstrel-lover true upon his sweet mandore.” 


The Entire Audience. 

Bravo ! Charming ! Ravishing ! 


(Applause.) 


Madame De Blinval. 

There is an indefinable mystery in the closing words which 
brings tears to one’s eyes. 

The Writer of Funeral Poems (modestly). 

The climax is veiled. 

1 We think that we should reprint here the following preface in dia- 
logue, which accompanied the fourth edition of The Last Day of a Con- 
demned Man. In reading it, one must remember in the midst of what 
political, moral, and literary troubles the first editions of the book were 
published (edition of 1832). 


217 


218 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


The Chevalier (shaking his head). 

Mandore , minstrel , there is romanticism in that ! 

The Writer of Funeral Poems. 

Yes, sir ; but reasonable and true romanticism. What can 
you expect ? We must make some concessions. 

The Chevalier. 

Concessions ! concessions ! That is how one loses style. I 
would give all the romantic stanzas that have ever been 
written for this one quatrain : — 

“ From Pinde and Cythera teasing, 

Did Sir Bernard discover, 

That Saturday, the Art of Lover, 

Would sup a’ the Art of Pleasing!” 

There is true poetry ! The art of Loving supping on Satur- 
day with the art of Pleasing ! That is fine ! But to-day it 
is the mandore, the minstrel. We no longer write fugitive 
poetry. If I were a poet, I would write fugitive poems ; but 
I am not a poet. 

The Writer of Funeral Poems. 

And yet, funeral poems — 

The Chevalier. 

Fugitive poems , sir. (Aside to Madame de Blinval.) More- 
over, chdtel (citadel) is not French ; it should be castel. 

A Guest (to the Writer of Funeral Poems). 

Allow me to offer a suggestion, sir. You say the ancient 
citadel, why not the Gothic ? 

The Writer of Funeral Poems. 

Gothic is not used in poetry. 

The Guest. 

Ah ! that is different. 

The Writer of Funeral Poems (continuing). 

You know, sir, one must keep within bounds. I am not 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


219 


one who wishes to change French verse, and bring back the 
epoch of Bonsard and Brebeuf. I am a romanticist, but in 
moderation. So, with the emotions — I like them gentle, 
dreamy, melancholy, never bloody and horrible. Let the cli- 
max be veiled. I know there are some fools with mad imagi- 
nations — By the way, ladies, have you read the latest novel ? 


Which one ? . 
The Last Day — 


The Ladies. 
The Poet. 


The Stout Gentleman. 

No more, sir, I beg ! I know the book you mean. The 
title alone makes me nervous. 

Madame De Blinval. 

It affects me in the same way. It is a frightful book. I 
have it here. 

The Ladies. 

Oh ! let us see it. (The book is handed around.) 


A Guest (reading). 

The Last Day of a — 

The Stout Gentleman. 

0 madame, spare us ! 

Madame De Blinval. 

It really is a dreadful book, it gives one the nightmare 
and makes one ill. 

A Lady (aside). 

1 must read it. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

We must admit that morality is growing more depraved 
every day. Great God, the horrible idea ! to develop, study, 
and analyze, one by one, without an omission, every physical 
and moral sensation of a man condemned to die. Is it not 
dreadful ? Do you understand, ladies, how any one could 


220 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 

write such a thing, or how any one could read it if it were 
written ? 

The Chevalier. 

It is the height of impertinence. 

Madame De Blinval. 

Who is the author ? 

The Stout Gentleman. 

There is no name signed to the first edition. 

The Poet. 

It is the same one who has already written other novels, 
the titles of which I forget just now. The first begins at the 
Morgue and ends at La Greve. In every chapter there is an 
ogre who eats a child. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

Have you read it, sir ? 

The Poet. 

Yes, sir ; the scene is laid in Iceland. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

In Iceland, how frightful ! 

The Poet. 

Besides these, he has written odes, ballads, and I don’t 
know what else, full of monsters who have corps bleus (blue 
bodies). 

The Chevalier (laughing). 

Corbleu ! That would make a tremendous verse. 

The Poet. 

Besides these, he has published a drama — so it is called 
— in which this fine line is found : — 

“ To-morrow , the twenty-fifth of June , one thousand six hundred and 
fifty-seven” 


THE LAST HAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


221 


A Guest. 

Ah, what a verse ! 

The Poet. 

It could be written in figures, you see, ladies : — 

“ Tomorrow , June 25, 1657.” 

(He laughs. They all laugh.) 

The Chevalier. 

The poetry of the present day is certainly peculiar. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

Why, that man does not understand versification. What 
is his name ? 

The Poet. 

His name is as hard to remember as it is to pronounce. It 
has in it something of the Goth, the Visigoth, and the Ostro- 
goth. (He laughs). 

Madame De Blinval. 

He is a dreadful man. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

An abominable man. 

A Young Lady. 

Some one who knows him told me — 

The Stout Gentleman. 

Ho you know some one who knows him ? 

The Young Lady. 

Yes ; and he said that the man is very gentle and simple in 
his habits, that he lives quietly, and spends his days playing 
with his little children. 

The Poet. 

And his nights in dreaming of works infernal. — That is 
strange ; there is a verse which I made unconsciously. But it 
is a verse, just the same : - — 

“ And his nights in dreaming of works infernal 


222 THE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


with a good caesura. There is only the corresponding rhyme 
to find. I have it ! Sepulchral ! 

Madame de Blinval. 

Quidquid tentabat dicere , versus erat. 

(Whatever he uttered was a poem.) 

The Stout Gentleman. 

You say that the author in question has little children ? . 
Impossible, madam e, when he has written such a story as 
this, such a frightful thing! 

A Guest. 

What object has this novel ? 

The Poet. 

I have no idea. 

A Philosopher. 

It seems to me that it favors the abolishment of capital 
punishment. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

I tell you it is horrible ! 

The Chevalier. 

So it is a duel with the hangman ? 

The Poet. 

He denounces the guillotine. 

The Thin Gentleman. 

Yes, I can see that ; here are invectives. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

Not at all. There are scarcely two pages on capital pun- 
ishment. It is all sensations. 

The Philosopher. 

There he is wrong. The subject deserves discussion. A 
drama, a novel, proves nothing. Moreover, I have read the 
book, and it is very bad. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 223 


The Poet. 

It is detestable ! Is that art ? It is going beyond bounds ; 
it is speaking out one’s mind too freely. Then, this criminal, 
if we only knew about him ! But no. What did he do ? We 
have no idea. Perhaps he was a very bad fellow. One should 
not rouse interest in one whom we do not know about. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

One has no right to make his reader suffer physically. 
When I see a tragedy, I expect a murder. Well, I am not 
affected. But this novel makes your hair stand on end and 
your flesh creep. It gives you bad dreams. I spent two days 
in bed for having read it. 

The Philosopher. 

Besides, the book is cold, premeditated. 

The Poet. 

The book ! The book ! 

The Philosopher. 

Yes. And as you have just remarked, sir, true art does not 
consist in that sort of thing. I am not interested in an ab- 
straction, a pure entity. I do not find a personality equal to 
mine. And then the style is neither simple nor clear. It is 
archaic. That was what you said, was it not ? 

The Poet. 

No doubt, no doubt. We must avoid personalities. 

The Philosopher. 

The prisoner is not interesting. 

The Poet. 

How could he be ? He has committed a crime, and feels 
no remorse. I would make him just the opposite. This would 
be the story of my prisoner. Born of honest parents. Good 
education. Love. Jealousy. A crime, which was not a 


224 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 

crime. Then remorse, remorse, much remorse. But human 
laws are implacable ; he must die. Then I would argue the 
question of capital punishment. There ! 

Madame de Blinval. 

Ah ! Ah ! 

The Philosopher. 

Pardon me. The book, as Monsieur understands it, proves 
nothing. The particular does not rule the general. 

The Poet. 

Well, better still, why not have taken for the hero, Males- 
herbes, for instance ? — the virtuous Malesherbes ? His last 
day, his punishment ? Oh, fine and noble thought ! Then I 
would have cried, I would have shivered, I would have longed 
to mount the scaffold with him. 

The Philosopher. 

Well, I should not. 

The Chevalier. 

Nor I. At heart he was a Revolutionist. 

The Philosopher. 

The scaffold of Malesherbes would prove nothing against 
capital punishment in general. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

Capital punishment ! Of what use is it to discuss that ? 
How does capital punishment concern you ? This author 
must be of low birth, to give us the nightmare from such a 
subject. 

Madame de Blinval. 

Ah ! yes ; he must have an evil heart. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

He compels us to look into the prisons, into the galleys, 
into Bicetre, all of which is extremely disagreeable. We 


THE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMN ED MAN. 225 


know, of course, that such places exist; but why should 
society trouble itself about them ? 

Madame de Blinval. 

The lawmakers were not children. 

The Philosopher. 

And yet, if the subject were presented in a true light — 

The Thin Gentleman. 

That is exactly what is lacking, truth. How can a poet be 
expected to know about such things ? One must at least be 
a public prosecutor. I read in a newspaper a criticism of 
this book, in which it said that the prisoner did not utter a 
word when his death-sentence was read ; now, I once saw 
a prisoner, and when the sentence was read, he gave a great 
shriek. You see the difference. 

The Philosopher. 

Allow — 

The Thin Gentleman. 

Yes, gentleman, the guillotine, the grave, is poor taste ; 
and to prove this, you see that the book is such as corrupts 
good taste, and makes you incapable of pure, fresh, naive 
emotions. When will the defenders of clean, wholesome 
literature rise ? I should like to be a member of the Prench 
Academy, and perhaps my public addresses might make me 
eligible. Here is Monsieur Ergaste, who is a member. What 
does he think of the Last Day of a Condemned Man ? 

Ergaste. 

Indeed, sir, I have neither read it, nor do I intend to. Yes- 
terday I was dining with Madame de Senange, and the Mar- 
quise de Morival spoke of it to the Duke of Melcourt. They 
said that there were personalities in it against the magistracy, 
and especially against President d’Alimont. Abbe Floricour 
was indignant also. It seems that it contains a chapter 


226 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


against religion, and one against the monarchy. If I were a 
public prosecutor — 

The Chevalier. 

Yes, indeed, public prosecutor ! and the charter ! and the 
liberty of the press ! Yet you will acknowledge that it would 
be disagreeable for a poet who wishes to abolish capital pun- 
ishment. Ah, ah ! under the ancient regime any one who pub- 
lished a novel against punishment — ! But since the fall of 
the Bastile one can write anything. Books do a frightful 
amount of harm. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

Frightful. Everything was quiet; we were agitated over 
nothing. From time to time a head was cut off in France, 
here and there, two a week at the most, but without noise, 
without scandal. Nothing was said. No one thought any- 
thing of it. And then — this book — a book which gives 
one a dreadful headache ! 

The Thin Gentleman. 

As though a jury would convict anyone after having read it. 

Ergaste. 

It hurts one’s conscience. 

Madame de Blinval. 

Ah ! Books ! Books ! Who would have thought that of a 
novel ? 

The Poet. 

There is no doubt but that books are poisoning society. 

The Thin Gentleman. 

Not to mention the language, which these romanticists 
revolutionize also. 

The Poet. 

Let us make a distinction, sir ; there are romanticists and 
romanticists. 


TEE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


227 


The Thin Gentleman. 

Such poor taste, poor taste. 

Ergaste. 

You are right. It is poor taste. 

The Thin Gentleman. 

There is nothing more to say. 

The Philosopher (leaning over a lady’s chair). 

Subjects are discussed in this book which are no longer 
mentioned even in the Rue Mouffetard. 

Ergaste. 

Ah ! the wretched book ! 

Madame de Blinval. 

Oh ! do not throw it into the fire. It is hired. 

The Chevalier. 

Talk of these times ! Since our day everything is de- 
praved. Do you remember our day, Madame de Blinval ? 

Madame de Blinval. 

No, Monsieur, I do not. 

The Chevalier. 

We were the gentlest, the gayest, the wittiest people. 
There were always beautiful fetes and pretty verses. It was 
charming. Is there anything more beautiful than Monsieur 
de La Harpe’s madrigal on the great ball given by Madame 
de Mailly, the marshal’s wife, in seventeen hundred and — 
the year of Damiens’ execution. 

The Stout Gentleman (sighing). 

Those were happy days ! Now the morals are horrible as 
well as the books. Boileau says in his beautiful lines : — 

“ And the fall of the arts follows the fall of the morals.” 


228 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


The Philosopher (aside to the Poet). 

Do they have supper here ? 

The Poet. 

Yes, very soon. 

The Thin Gentleman. 

Now they want to abolish capital punishment; and with 
this object in view they write novels, cruel, immoral, and in 
poor taste, like the Last Day of a Condemned Man and I 
don’t know what else. 

The Stout Gentleman. 

My dear fellow, let us talk no more of this atrocious book ; 
and, by the way, tell me, what are you going to do about that 
man whose appeal we refused three weeks ago ? 

The Thin Gentleman. 

Oh, be patient a while ! I am on a vacation here. Do let 
me have a breathing space. Wait until I return. If I am 
away too long, I will write to my substitute — 

A Servant (entering). 

Madame, supper is served. 





“CONDEMNED TO DIE.” 


CHAPTER I. 


BICETRE. 


Condemned to die ! 

For five weeks this thought has dwelt within me, and this 
alone, congealing my blood, bearing me down beneath its 
weight ! 

Once, and it seems as if it were years and not weeks ago, 
I was like other men. Each day, each hour, each moment, 
was full. My mind was young and active, and it delighted 
in fancies. One after another they unrolled before me, and 
I saw the rough and scanty stuff of which life is made, with 
its embroidery of never-ending arabesques. There were young 
girls, fine copes belonging to bishops, battles won, theatres 
full of life and light, and then young girls again, and noc- 
turnal promenades beneath the kindly arms of chestnut-trees. 
My fancy always pictured fetes . I could dream of what 
pleased me, for I was free then. Now I am a captive. My 
body is in chains, in a dungeon. My mind is imprisoned in 
an idea — a horrible, bloody, wild idea ! I have but one 
thought, one conviction, one certainty : I am condemned to 
die ! 

Whatever I do, this dread thought is ever with me, like a 
ghost at my side, alone and jealous, chasing away all other 
thoughts, face to face with my wretched self, and touching 
me with its icy hands when I turn away and close my eyes. 
It glides along every path where my soul would hide, it min- 
gles like a frightful refrain with every word I hear, it clings 
to the hideous bars of my prison, it pursues me awake, it 
spies my troubled sleep, and creeps into my dreams under the 
form of a knife. 

I waken with a start, still pursued by it ; I cry : “ Ah, it 

229 


230 THE LAST DAT OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 

is nothing but a dream ! ” — but scarcely are my heavy eyes 
half opened, before I see the dread thought written on the 
horrible reality which surrounds me, on the damp, close floor 
of my cell, in the pale rays of my night-lamp, in the coarse 
woof of my garments, on the sombre figure of the sentinel, 
with his cartridge-box gleaming through the bars. It seems 
to me that even now, a voice whispers in my ear : Condemned 
to die l 


THE LAST LAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 231 


CHAPTER II. 

It was a beautiful morning in August. For three days 
my trial had been going on ; for three days my name and my 
crime had called together a crowd of spectators, who swooped 
down upon the benches of the court-room like so many crows 
around a corpse; for three days the phantasmagoria of judges, 
witnesses, lawyers, and public prosecutors had been coming 
and going before me, now grotesque, now bloody, but always 
dark and dreadful. The first two nights I had not been able 
to sleep from anxiety and fright ; but weariness, physical and 
mental, brought me rest on the third. At midnight I had 
left the judges, who were to come to a decision. I was taken 
back to the straw of my dungeon ; and I fell into a deep sleep, 
a sleep of forgetfulness. That was the first peaceful moment 
I had had for many a day. 

I was still sleeping soundly when they came to waken me. 
This time the heavy step and the iron shoes of the turnkey, 
the rattle of his bunch of keys, and the hoarse grinding of 
the locks, were not enough to rouse me from my lethargy. 
It needed his rough voice in my ear, and his heavy hand 
upon my arm. “ Get up, will you ? ” I opened my eyes, and 
sat up in terror. Just at that instant there fell through the 
high narrow grating of my cell, upon the ceiling of the ad- 
joining corridor, the only ray of light I had seen for a long 
time, the yellow reflection, which eyes accustomed to the 
shade of a prison easily recognize as the sun. I love the sun. 

u It is a fair day,” I said to the jailer. 

For a moment he did not answer, as if doubtful whether 
it were worth while to waste a word ; then with an effort he 
muttered roughly : — 

“ Perhaps it is.” 


232 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 

I was silent, my mind seemed half asleep, but my lips were 
smiling, and my eyes were fixed upon the soft ray of gold 
which illuminated the ceiling. 

“ It is a beautiful day,” I said again. 

“ Yes,” the man returned ; “ and they are waiting for you.” 

The words, like a thread which breaks the flight of an in- 
sect, brought me violently back to reality. I saw again, like 
a flash of lightning, the dreary court-room, the horseshoe of 
the judges which was covered with bloody rags, the three 
rows of stupid-looking witnesses, the two gendarmes on either 
side of me, and the swaying black gowns ; then, the billowy 
sea of heads at the farther end of the room, and the fixed gaze 
of the dozen jurors, who had kept watch while I slept ! 

I rose ; my teeth chattered, my hands trembled, my limbs 
shook, I could not find my clothes. At my first step I swayed 
like a man carrying too heavy a burden. But I followed the 
jailer. 

The two gendarmes were waiting at the door of my cell. 
They put handcuffs on my wrists, and carefully closed the 
complicated little padlocks. I let them do it; they were 
machines on a machine. 

We crossed an inner court. The brisk morning air re- 
vived me. I raised my head. The sky was blue; and the 
warm rays of the sun, falling across the long chimneys, 
marked great angles of light on the topmost walls of the dark 
prison. It was a beautiful day indeed. 

We ascended a spiral staircase, crossed a corridor, then 
another, and still a third, and finally reached a low door 
that stood open. A heavy odor and the confused murmuring 
voices came to me; it was the crowd in the court-room. I 
entered. 

At sight of me there rose a clashing of arms and of voices. 
The benches were hastily moved back, the boards creaked ; 
and as I crossed the room, between two crowds of people, 
flanked by soldiers, I felt that I was the centre to which were 
attached the threads which pulled every gaping, staring face. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 238 


Suddenly I noticed that I was without irons ; but when or 
where they had been removed I had no idea. 

Then a great hush fell upon the room. I was in my 
place. As the noise and tumult of the crowd ceased, my 
mind also grew calm ; and all at once I saw clearly, what up 
to then I had realized only in a dazed way, that the decisive 
moment had come, that I was there to hear my sentence. 

Explain it as you will, this thought caused me no terror. 
The windows were open ; the air and the noise of the city 
fell upon my ears ; the room was as bright as if there were 
to be a wedding there ; the sun’s rays fell here and there 
in shining crosses, upon the floor, on the tables, broken by 
the angles of the wall ; and from the shining mouldings of the 
windows each beam hung in the air, a great prism of shim- 
mering gold. 

The judges on the platform had a satisfied air, probably 
because they had reached a decision. The features of the 
presiding judge, thrown into soft relief by a ray from one of 
the windows, looked calm and kind ; a young attorney was 
smoothing out his cravat, and talking gayly to a pretty lady in 
a red bonnet, who as a mark of special favor had been given a 
seat behind him. 

The jurors alone appeared wearied and discouraged, but I 
thought they looked so because they had been up all night. 
Some of them yawned. Nothing in their kindly faces showed 
that they had just pronounced a death-sentence ; they seemed 
to me as if they wanted nothing but a good night’s sleep. 

In front of me a window stood wide open. I heard the 
flower-venders laughing on the quay; and on the window- 
bench a pretty little yellow plant, bathed in the sunlight, 
was playing with the wind in a cranny of the wall. 

How could a gloomy thought enter into the midst of so 
many pleasant ones ? Surrounded by the outer air and the 
sunshine, I could think of nothing but liberty ; hope glowed 
within me, like the daylight without; and in perfect confi- 
dence I awaited my sentence as one awaits freedom and life. 


234 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 

My lawyer, whom they had been expecting, arrived at last. 
He had breakfasted heartily. Taking his place, he leaned 
toward me with a smile. 

“ I have hope/’ said he. 

“ So have I,” I replied easily, smiling also. 

“ Yes,” he continued; “ although, of course, I know nothing 
of their decision, still I have no doubt they will refuse to 
find premeditation, and in that case it will be only penal 
servitude.” 

“ What do you mean, sir ? ” I asked indignantly ; “ I would 
prefer death, a hundred times ! Yes, death ! ” Besides, 
some inner voice whispered, what do I risk by saying this ? 
Has a death-sentence ever been pronounced except at twelve 
o’clock on a cold, drizzling winter night, in a dark and gloomy 
room, beneath the glare of candles ? 

It would be impossible in the month of August, at eight 
o’clock in the morning, on such a beautiful day, and by such 
a kind jury ! And my eyes turned again to the pretty yellow 
flower playing in the sun. 

Then the presiding judge, who had been waiting only for 
my lawyer, told me to rise. The gendarmes “ presented 
arms ; ” and as from an electric shock, the entire crowd stood 
up. A small, insignificant fellow, at a table below the judges, 
the clerk, I suppose he was, began to read the verdict of the 
jury. A cold perspiration came from my every limb, and I 
leaned against the wall to keep from falling. 

“ Lawyer, have you anything to say as to why the sentence 
should not be pronounced ? ” asked the judge. 

I had everything to say, but no word came to me. My 
tongue clove to my mouth. 

The defence rose. 

I understood that he was trying to soften the decision of 
the jury, and to substitute for the punishment prescribed, the 
other suggestion, which had made me so angry. 

My indignation must indeed have been great, to make 
itself felt above the thousand conflicting emotions of my 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 235 


mind. I* wanted to shout out what I had already told him : 
“ I prefer death a hundred times ! ”, But breath failed me ; 
and I could only grasp him roughly by the arm, and cry 
hoarsely, “ No ! ” 

The attorney-general began to argue with the lawyer, and I 
listened with a dazed sort of satisfaction. The judges then 
withdrew; after a moment they returned, and the presiding 
judge read my sentence. 

“ Condemned to die ! ” shouted the crowd ; and while they 
led me away, the people rushed at my heels with the noise of 
a falling building. I walked along dazed and stupefied. A 
change had taken place in me. Up to the moment of the 
death-sentence, I had been living, breathing among other 
men ; now I clearly saw that there was a high wall between 
the world and myself. Nothing seemed the same to me. 
The great shining windows, the beautiful sunshine, the clear 
sky, the pretty flower, — all were white and dull, like a 
shroud. The crowd of men, women, and children following 
me were like phantoms. 

At the foot of the staircase, a dirty black and closely 
barred vehicle awaited me. As I stepped in, I happened to 
glance across the Square. “ A man condemned to die ! ” cried 
several passers-by, running toward the carriage. Through the 
cloud which seemed to rise between me and the surrounding 
objects, I saw two young girls following me with wide-opened 
eyes. “ Good ! ” exclaimed the younger one, clapping her 
hands, “it will be in six weeks.” 


286 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER III. 


Condemned to die ! 

Well, why not ? “Men,” I remember to have read in some 
book which contained nothing else that was good, “ Men are 
all condemned to die with various reprieves” How is my 
position any different ? 

Since my sentence was pronounced, how many have died 
who had expected a long life ! How many have gone before 
me, who, young, free, and healthy, had counted on seeing my 
head fall upon the Place de Greve ! How many, even now, 
may die before me, who are now living, breathing the glad 
air, and coming and going as they please ! 

And then, why should I want to live ? The dull light, the 
black prison bread, the portion of thin soup, which is brought 
to me in a galley’s bowl, the harsh treatment I receive from 
the jailers and keepers, — I, who am refined and educated, — 
without a single human being near me who thinks me worthy 
of a word or to whom I can speak, trembling at everything 
that I have done and that others are going to do, — these 
are about the only blessings of which the hangman can rob 
me. 

But, it is horrible ! 


THE LAST LAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 237 


CHAPTER IV. 

The black carriage brought me here, to this hideous Bi- 
cetre. 

Seen from afar, the building is somewhat majestic in ap- 
pearance. It spreads along the horizon, on the brow of a 
hill, and, in the distance, still preserves some of its former 
splendor, the appearance of a king’s chateau. But as one 
approaches, the palace is found to be in ruins. The fallen 
wings hurt one’s feelings. Shame and poverty stare down 
from the royal facades ; it looks as if there were leprosy be- 
hind the walls. It is without windows or window-frames, 
with nothing but great iron cross-bars, and here and there the 
wan face of a galley or a madman peering through. 

This is a near view of life. 


288 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Scarcely had I arrived, before handcuffs were placed on 
me. Precautions were redoubled ; I was allowed neither knife 
nor fork at meals ; the strait-jacket, a sort of linen bag with 
wings, imprisoned my arms. The jailers were responsible for 
my life. I had sued for a writ of error ; the troublesome 
business would not be over for six or seven .weeks, and it 
was important that I should reach the Place de Greve safe 
and sound. 

During the first few days they treated me with a gentleness 
which was horrible. The respect of a jailer savors of the 
scaffold. But, happily, after a time, their manner changed. 
I was handled like the other prisoners, with a common bru- 
tality, and received no more of the special and polite atten- 
tions which brought the hangman constantly before me. This 
was not the sole improvement. My youth, my submission, 
the interest that the prison chaplain took in me, and espe- 
cially some Latin words which I addressed to the concierge, 
who did not understand them, made them allow me to walk 
once a week with the other prisoners, without the strait- 
jacket, which was paralyzing me. After much hesitation, 
they also allowed me ink, paper, pens, and a night-lamp. 

Every Sunday, after service, I am allowed in the yard at 
the hour of exercise, and then I talk with the prisoners. I 
have to. They are good fellows, the poor wretches. They 
tell me of their crimes, which are horrible to hear ; but I 
know that they are boasting, They are teaching me to speak 
slang, to “ rouscailler bigorne ” (swing the anvil), as they say. 
It is a language which has grown upon the general language 
like a hideous excrescence or wart. Sometimes it is strangely 
forcible and frightfully graphic. For instance : there is some 


THE LAST BAY OF A CONBEMNEB MAN. 289 


juice on the trimar (blood on the road) ; to marry the widow 
(to be hanged), as if the rope of the hangman were the widow 
of every one who is hanged. A robber’s head has two names, 
the Sorbonne, when it plans, reasons out, and advises crime ; the 
tronche , when the hangman cuts it off. Sometimes the lan- 
guage has the wit of a Vaudeville : as a wicker cashmire (a 
rag-picker’s basket) the Iyer (the tongue) ; and then, every- 
where, every instant, strange, mysterious words occur, rough 
and unseemly, coined, one knows not where, as, the taule (the 
hangman), the cone (death), the placarde (the place of execu- 
tion). They use the words toads and spiders. To hear this 
language spoken gives one an idea of something dirty and 
dusty, of a bundle of rags shaken in front of one. But these 
men pity me, at least, and they are the only ones. The jail- 
ers, the wardens, and the turnkeys, — -I hate them, — talk and 
laugh, and discuss me before my very eyes, as if I were a 
thing. 


240 THE LAST HAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTEB ' VI. 


I said to myself, — 

“ Since I have writing materials, why not use them ? ” But 
what shall I write? Imprisoned within four stone walls, 
cold and bare, without space to walk, without a horizon for 
my eyes, my one diversion consoling in following mechani- 
cally throughout the entire day the slow march of the white 
square which the peep-hole of my door cuts out on the oppo- 
site dull wall, and as I just now said, alone with one idea, an 
idea of crime and punishment, of murder and of death, — is 
there anything for me to tell, I who have nothing left to do 
in this world ? What would there be in my worn-out and 
empty brain which would be worth writing ? 

And yet why not? If everything about me is dull and 
monotonous, is there not within me a tempest, a strife, a 
tragedy ? Does not this fixed thought which possesses me, 
appear before me, every hour, every instant, under a new 
form, more hideous and bloody as the time approaches ? 
Why should I not try to tell myself all that is strange and 
dreadful in my loneliness. Surely the field is a wide one ; 
and short as my life may be between now and then, there 
will be plenty of chances to use my pen and ink, in writing 
of the agony, the terror, and the tortures that assail me. Be- 
sides, the only way to lighten my agony is to study it, and 
writing it will be a distraction to me. 

Perhaps, too, what I write will not be wholly useless. This 
diary of my suffering, hour after hour, minute after minute, 
torture after torture, if I have strength enough left to carry 
it up to the moment when it will be physically impossible to 
continue it, — may not this story (necessarily unfinished, but 
as complete as possible) of my feelings, carry with it a great 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 241 


and mighty lesson ? Might there not be more than a lesson 
for those who convict, in this verbal process of agonizing 
thought, in this ever-increasing chain of suffering, in this kind 
of intellectual autopsy of a man condemned to die ? Perhaps 
my story will make them more lenient, when at some future 
time the question arises of throwing a thinking head, a man’s 
head, into what they call the scales of justice. Perhaps the 
wretched men have never thought of the slow succession 
of tortures included under the expeditious form of a death- 
sentence. Have they ever considered the painful thought 
that in the man whom they condemn there is an intellect, 
an intellect which had counted on life, a soul which was not 
prepared for death ? No. In all that, they see only the 
vertical fall of a triangular knife, thinking, no doubt, that 
for the condemned man there is nothing before or after. 

These leaves will undeceive them. Perhaps they will be 
published some day, and may make the mind of these men 
ponder an instant upon mental suffering; for this they do 
not suspect. They triumph at being able to kill without 
making the body suffer. Ah ! that is what they think ! But 
what is physical suffering when compared to moral ? How 
horrible and pitiful it is that laws should be made thus ! 
The day will come, and perhaps these memoirs, the last con- 
fidences of a poor wretch, may help to hasten it. . . . 

At least, after my death, may the wind not play in the yard 
with these sheets of paper, covered with mud ; may they not 
rot in the rain, pasted like stars to the broken window of a 
jailer’s room. 


242 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER VII. 

May all that I write here some day be of use to others ; 
may it keep the judge from pronouncing death sentences; 
may it save poor wretches, whether they are innocent or not, 
from the agony to which I am condemned. And yet why ? 
To what end ? For what good ? When my head is cut off, 
what difference will it make to me if they cut off other 
heads ? Can I really think of such nonsense as this ? Sup- 
pose they hurl down the scaffold after I have mounted it ! 
I ask you what good will it do me ? 

What ! the sun, the spring, the flowering fields, the birds 
who awaken the morning, the clouds, the trees, nature, liberty, 
life, — have I lost them all ? 

Ah ! It is I who must be saved ! Is it really true that this 
cannot be, that I must die to-morrow, to-day perhaps ; is this 
true ? 0 God ! What a horrible idea it is to dash out one’s 

brains against the walls of one’s prison ! 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 243 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Let me count the time that still remains. Three days’ 
stay after the sentence, for the writ of error. 

Eight days of oblivion before the Court of Appeals, after 
which the briefs , as they are called, are filed with the clerk. 

Fifteen days delay at the clerk’s, who does not know that 
they even exist, and who, nevertheless, is supposed to have 
transmitted them, after examination, to the Court of Appeals. 

There, each one is classified, numbered, and registered ; for 
the guillotine is crowded, and each must go in turn. 

Fifteen days to watch for something which may not favor 
you in the end. Finally, the Court sits, usually on a Thurs- 
day, rejects twenty writs together, sends them all back to the 
clerk, who in turn sends them to the attorney-general, who 
transmits them to the hangman. Three days. 

On the morning of the fourth, the deputy of the attorney- 
general says to himself, as he ties his cravat, “ We must bring 
this case to a close.” Then, if the deput}' clerk is not kept at 
home by a breakfast with some friends, the warrant of execu- 
tion is drawn up, written, copied fair, and despatched ; and 
the following day at dawn a frame is heard being erected on 
the Place de Greve, and in the streets criers are shouting 
with hoarse voices. 

Six weeks in all. The young girl was right. But, here are 
at least five and perhaps six weeks, I dare not stop to count 
which, that I have already been in this prison of Bicetre, 
and it seems to me that three days ago was Thursday. 


244 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTEE IX. 

have just made my will. And yet what is the use ? I 
am condemned at great cost, and all that I have will scarcely 
suffice to settle it. The guillotine is very expensive. 

I leave a mother, a wife, and one child. A little girl, three 
years old, sweet, rosy, and frail, with great black eyes and 
long, nut-brown hair. 

She was two years and one month old when I last saw her. 

So, after my death, there will be three women, without a 
son, a husband, and a father ; three orphans, so to speak ; 
three widows in point of law. 

I admit that I am justly punished ; but what have these 
innocent ones done ? 

No matter, they are disgraced, ruined ; this is justice. 

It is not my poor old mother who troubles me ; she will 
die — or, if she lasts a few days longer, if up to the last 
moment she has a few warm coals in her stove, she will say 
nothing. 

Nor is it my wife who troubles me ; she is already weak 
and in poor health ; she will die too. 

I hope she will not go mad. They say that that makes one 
live; but at least the mind does not suffer; it sleeps and 
is as if it were dead. 

But my daughter, my child, my poor little Marie, who 
laughs and plays, who is singing even now. and thinking of 
nothing. Ah ! it is this that hurts me ! 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 245 


CHAPTER X. 

My cell consists of this : 

Eight square feet and four walls of freestone at right 
angles to a flag-stone floor, which is raised one step above 
the outer corridor. 

To the right of the door, upon entering, is a sort of recess, 
a parody on an alcove. Here they have thrown a bit of 
straw on which the prisoner is supposed to rest and sleep, 
covered with a pair of linen trousers and a coat of ticking, the 
same, winter and summer. 

Above my head, instead of the sky, is a black vault, — 
an ogive , it is called, — from which hang thick cobwebs like 
rags. 

Eor the rest, there are no windows, not even a vent-hole ; 
and the one wooden door is entirely covered with iron. 

Xo, I am wrong; in the centre of the door, toward the top, 
there is an opening, nine thumbs in width, cut out in the 
shape of a cross, and which at night is closed by the jailer. 

Outside, is a long corridor, lighted and aired by means of 
narrow vent-holes near the ceiling, and divided into stone 
compartments, which open into one another by a series of 
low, arched doors; each compartment serves as some sort of 
an antechamber to a cell like mine. In these cells are the 
criminals sentenced by the director of the prison to severe 
discipline. The first three cells are reserved for those con- 
demned to die, because, being nearer the jail, they are more 
convenient for the jailer. These cells are all that is left of 
the ancient chateau of Bicetre, as it was built in the fifteenth 
century by the Cardinal of Winchester. He was the one who 
ordered Jeanne d’Arc burned. I heard this from some visit- 
ors who came to see me the other day in my cell, and who 


246 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


looked at me from a distance as though I were a beast in a 
menagerie. They gave the jailer a hundred sous for admit- 
ting them. 

I forgot to say that day and night there is a gendarme at 
the door of my cell, and that I cannot raise my eyes to the 
square hole without always finding his, wide open, and staring 
at me. 

People suppose that there are air and light in this stone 
box. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 247 


CHAPTER XI. 

Since it was not yet daylight, I was wondering what I 
should do with the night, when all at once an idea came into 
my mind. I rose and turned my lamp upon the four walls of 
my cell. They are covered with names, scrawls, and strange 
figures, one running into the other. It seems as though each 
convict wanted to leave a mark behind him here, ajt least. 
They are in pencil, chalk, charcoal, black, white, and gray, 
and often are cut deep into the stone, while here and there 
are rusty marks that might have been written with blood. 
Surely, were my mind clear, I would take much interest in 
this strange book which is developing, page after page, before 
my eyes on every stone of my cell. I should like to gather 
all these fragmentary thoughts together that are scattered 
over the stones, and find the owner under every name, and 
give life and feeling to these worn-out inscriptions, these 
broken sentences, these mangled words, these bodies without 
heads, like those who wrote them. 

At the head of my bed are two burning hearts pierced 
by an arrow, and above are written the words : “ Love for' 
life.” The unfortunate writer did not make a long engage- 
ment. 

By the side of this is a three-cornered hat with a small 
figure roughly sketched above it, and these words : “ Long live 
the Emperor ! 1824.” 

More burning hearts, with the inscription, a characteris- 
tic one in a prison : u I love and adore Matthew Lanvin. 
Jacques.” 

On the opposite wall is: “ Papavoine.” The capital P»is 
embellished with arabesques, and is carefully drawn. 

A stanza of an obscene song. 


248 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


A liberty-cap cut deep into the stone, with this below: 
“ Bories. — The Republic He was one of the four sub-offi- 
cers of La Bochelle. Poor fellow ! How hideous are their 
imaginary political needs ! For an idea, a dream, a thought, 
to meet this dread reality called the guillotine ! And I am 
complaining, I, a wretch who has committed a real crime, who 
has spilled blood ! 

I shall look no further among the inscriptions. I have just 
seen, in white crayon in the corner of the wall, a frightful 
picture, — the picture of the scaffold which perhaps is being 
built even now for me. The lamp just escaped falling from 
my hands. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 249 


CHAPTER XII. 

I sat down hurriedly on my straw, and my head fell for- 
ward upon my knees. But as soon as my childish terror had 
passed away I felt a strange curiosity to look again along the 
wall. Next to the name of Papavoine I removed a huge 
spider-web, thick with dust, from a corner of the wall. Be- 
hind the web were four or five names which were perfectly 
legible, and several others of which only a faint impression re- 
mained : “ Dautun, 1815; Poulain, 1818; Jean Martin, 1821; 
Castaing, 1823.” As I read these names I remembered the 
sad fate of each. Dautun cut his brother into pieces, and one 
night threw the head into a fountain and the body into a 
sewer in Paris. Poulain murdered his wife. Jean Martin 
shot his father as the old man was opening a window. Cas- 
taing, the physician, poisoned his friend ; and instead of thy- 
ing to cure him, as he pretended to do, he gave him more 
poison. Near to these was Papavoine, the dreadful madman 
who killed children by cutting open their heads. 

A hot shiver went through me. These are the ones, I 
thought to myself, who have occupied my cell before me. 
Here, on the very floor on which I am standing, they thought 
their last thoughts, these bloody murderers ! In this very 
dungeon, within these very walls, their last steps turned back 
and forth like a wild beast. Others took their places without 
delay; it seems that the cell is never empty. They left the 
place warm, and it is to me they left it. I, in turn, shall 
follow them to Clainart Cemetery, where the grass is always 
green. 

I am* neither visionary nor superstitious; perhaps these 
thoughts are making me feverish, but while I was thinking 
of them, it seemed to me all at once that these fatal names 


250 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN 

were written in lines of fire on the dark wall. A wild ringing 
was in my ears, a red glare came before my eyes j and then it 
seemed as though the dungeon were full of men, strange men, 
who carried their heads in their left hands, and held their 
hands between their teeth, for they had no hair. All shook 
their fists at me, except the parricide. 

I closed my eyes in horror, but they all came before me 
still more distinctly. 

Whether it was a dream, a vision, or a reality, I should 
have gone mad if a sudden thought had not dispelled them. 
I was on the point of falling when I felt crawling over my 
bare foot, a cold body with hairy legs ; it was the spider 
whose web I had torn down. 

That brought me back to myself. Oh, the frightful spectres ! 
No, it was all a phantom, an idea of my empty and tortured 
brain. A fancy like Macbeth’s ! The dead are dead, — those 
who have been here, at least. They are safely locked within 
the tomb. It is not a prison from which one can escape. 
How could I have been so terrified ? The door of the tomb 
does not open from within. 


THE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 251 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A few days ago I saw a horrible sight. 

It happened before daylight. The prison was very noisy. 
I heard the opening and closing of the heavy gates, the turn- 
ing of the locks and the iron bolts, the clank of the heavy 
bunches of keys hanging from the jailers’ waists, the stairs 
creaking from top to bottom beneath hurried steps, and 
voices calling and answering from one end of the long cor- 
ridors to the other. My neighbors in the cell of correction 
were more gay than usual. All Bicetre seemed to be laugh- 
ing, singing, running, and dancing. 

I, the only quiet one in all this hubbub, the only still being 
in all the uproar, sat wondering and on the alert, listening to 
every sound. 

A jailer passed. 

I ventured to call and ask him if there was a fete going on 
in the prison. 

“ You may call it a fete if you like! ” he replied. “ To-day 
they are going to put the irons on the convicts who start to- 
morrow for Toulon. Do you want to see them ? It will 
amuse you.” 

A show of any kind, however disagreeable, was a lucky 
thing for a solitary prisoner, and I accepted the fellow’s offer. 

The jailer took the usual precautions, to make sure of me, 
and then led me into a small empty cell, which contained not 
an article of furniture. It had a grated window, but a real 
window nevertheless, breast-high, and from which the real 
sky was visible. 

" Here,” said he, “ you can see and hear. You will be 
alone in your box, like a king.” 

He went out, drawing after him the locks, bolts, and bars, 


252 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 

The window looked out upon a good-sized square court, 
around the four sides of which, like a wall, rose a great stone 
structure six stories high. Nothing could be more disagree- 
able, more forlorn, nor more wretched-looking than that facade 
with its many barred gratings, behind which peered out, above 
and below, a crowd of thin, white faces, one over the other, 
like the stones in a wall, and all framed, as it were, between 
the iron bars. They were the prisoners, watching the cere- 
mony in which some day they were to take part. They looked 
like souls who were undergoing the punishment of purgatory, 
on their way to hell. 

They were watching in silence the empty court. They 
were waiting. Among the tired, heavy faces, here and there 
shone out wild, piercing eyes, like sparks of fire. 

The prison which surrounded the four sides of the square 
was not an unbroken wall. One of the four sides (the one 
looking to the east) was separated near the centre, and was 
connected to the other part by an iron railing. This railing 
opened on to a second court, smaller than the first, and, like 
it, flanked with walls full of black holes. 

Around the walls of the main court were placed stone 
benches. In the centre was an iron pole for holding a lantern. 

Noon struck. A large porte-cochere hidden behind a pro- 
jection was suddenly opened. A wagon appeared, escorted 
by a species of dirty and shamefaced-looking soldiers in blue 
uniforms, with red epaulets and yellow shoulder-straps. It 
dragged heavily across the court with the noise of grating iron. 
It contained the cliiourme (the galley-slaves) and the chains. 

At the same instant, as though that sound had roused 
every other, the spectators at the windows, who, until then, 
had stood still and silent, burst out into joyful cries and 
songs and threats and imprecations, mingled with shouts of 
laughter, painful to hear. They looked and acted like devils. 
A grin was on every face, every fist was thrust through 
the bars, every voice cried out, every eye flamed. I was 
startled to see such sparks bursting out from the cinders. 


THE LAST LAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


253 


The keepers, among whom I recognized from their fresh 
clothes and their apparent fright some curious visitors from 
Paris, went calmly on with their work. One jumped into the 
wagon, and threw out the chains, travelling-collars, and bun- 
dles of linen trousers. Then they divided the work. Some 
went to a corner of the court, and unwound the long chains, 
which, in their slang, are called the strings • others spread 
out on the pavement the taffetas , the shirts and trousers ; the 
wisest, under the eye of their captain, a short, thickset old 
man, examined the iron collars, which they tested still further 
by throwing them upon the pavement. All this went on 
under the derisive shouts of the prisoners, and the loud 
laughter of the convicts for whom it was done, and who were 
lined up behind the gratings of the old prison, which looked 
out upon the small court. 

When these preliminaries were over, a gentleman with sil- 
ver embroidery on his coat, whom they called the inspector, 
gave an order to the director of the prison ; and a moment 
later, from two or three of the lower doors, there poured out 
all at once into the court, like a cloud of smoke, hideous 
crowds of ragged, shouting men. These were the convicts. 

At sight of them, the clamor at the windows increased. 
Some of those who bore great names were welcomed with 
cries and shouts, which they received with a sort of proud 
modesty. The most of them wore caps which they had them- 
selves woven from the straw in their cells, of so curious a 
shape that those who wore them could not fail to be no- 
ticed. One in particular aroused shouts of enthusiasm, — a 
young man, perhaps seventeen years of age, with a face as 
smooth as a girl’s. He came out of his cell where he had 
been for a week. He had made a garment out of straw, 
which covered him from head to foot ; and he sprang into the 
court, rolling over and over, with the agility of a serpent. 
He was a juggler, convicted of theft. There was a burst of 
handclapping and shouts of joy. The galley-slaves answered 
it, and the exchange of gayety between the real convicts and 


254 


THE LAST LAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


the candidates was frightful. Society, represented by the 
jailers and the frightened visitors, was of small account 
there; crime laughed in its very face, and made a family 
fete of this frightful punishment. 

As each convict came out, he was led between two lines of 
gendarmes to the barred court, where he waited for the visit 
of the physicians. It was at this point that each tried a last 
resort in order to escape the journey, offering as an excuse 
their health, poor eyesight, lameness, or a maimed hand. 
But almost all were found fitted for work ; and each resigned 
himself carelessly, forgetting a few minutes after, his pre- 
tended life infirmity. 

The grating of the small court opened. A guard called the 
roll alphabetically ; and then each convict came out, one by 
one, and took his stand in a corner of the large court, next 
to a comrade whose initial letter happened to be the same. 
Thus each was alone, carrying his own chain, side by side 
with a stranger ; and if a convict chanced to be near a 
friend, the chain separated them. This was their greatest 
punishment. 

When about thirty had gone out, the grating was closed. 
A keeper singled them out with his baton, threw in front of 
each a shirt, a jacket, and a pair of coarse linen trousers, 
then gave the signal, and they all began to undress. An un- 
looked-for incident changed this humiliation into torture. 

Until then the weather had been clear; and although the 
October air was cold, every now and then the gray clouds 
opened, and from the chinks fell a ray of sunlight. But 
scarcely had the convicts dropped their prison-rags, and just 
as they stood naked before the suspicious glances of the keep- 
ers, and the curious looks of the strangers who walked around 
them in order to examine their shoulders, the sky became 
black, a cold autumn rain began to fall in torrents upon the 
square court, upon the bare heads and naked bodies of the gal- 
ley-slaves, and upon their miserable clothes lying on the pave- 
ment. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 255 


In the twinkling of an eye the yard was cleared of every- 
one who was not a keeper or a galley-slave. The visitors 
from Paris sought shelter beneath the doorways. 

The rain fell in torrents. Nothing could be seen in the 
court but the naked, dripping convicts on the soaked pave- 
ment. A moody silence had succeeded their boastful shout- 
ing. They shivered ; their teeth chattered ; their thin limbs 
and bent knees knocked against each other, and it was piti- 
ful to see them putting over their blue bodies the shirts, 
jackets, and trousers which were soaked with the rain. They 
would better have remained naked. 

One old man, however, was still lively. He cried out, 
wringing his dripping shirt, that “ this was not on the pro- 
gramme ; ” then he began to laugh, shaking his fist at the 
sky. 

When they had put on their travelling-clothes, they were 
led in groups of twenty or thirty to the other corner of the 
yard, where the cordons awaited them. These cordons are 
great long chains crossed every two feet by other shorter 
chains, at the end of which is attached a square collar which 
opens by means of a hinge fastened to one of the corners, and 
closes at the opposite corner by an iron bolt, locked on the 
galley-slave’s neck throughout the entire journey. As these 
cordons lie on the ground they look like the backbone of a 
fish. 

They made the slaves sit down in the mud on the soaking 
pavements. They tried on the collars ; then two of the prison 
blacksmiths brought portable anvils, and riveted them on with 
a great iron hammer. It was a dreadful moment, and the 
bravest paled. At every stroke of the hammer upon the 
anvil, which leaned against their back, the victim’s chin re- 
bounded ; the least movement made his head jump like a 
nutshell. 

After this was done the convicts became gloomy. Noth- 
ing was heard but the clanking of the chains, an occasional 
groan, and the dull thud of the keeper’s baton on the limbs 


256 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


of the offender. Some cried ; the old men shivered and bit 
their lips. I looked with terror upon all these sinister pro- 
files in their iron frames. 

After the visit of the physicians, came that of the jailers ; 
and after the jailers, the putting into chains. Three acts to 
the play ! 

A ray of sunlight appeared. It acted like a touch of fire. 
The convicts rose with one accord. The five cordons took 
hold of hands, and all together they formed an immense circle 
about the lantern-pole. My eyes grew weary watching them 
turn. They sang a prison-song, a slangy romance, to a tune 
now sad, now wild and gay. Every now and then shrill cries 
were heard and bursts of hoarse, breathless laughter, mingled 
with strange words ; then furious shouts rang out, the clank- 
ing chains serving as an orchestra to the song, which was 
harsher than their grating. If ever I wanted a picture of a 
nocturnal meeting of witches I should ask for nothing better 
or worse than this. 

A large tub was brought into the yard. The keeper stopped 
the dance with his baton, and led the convicts to this tub, in 
which some herbs were floating in a dirty, smoky, liquid. 
They began to eat. 

When they had finished, they threw upon the pavement 
what was left of their soup and brown bread, and began to 
dance and sing again. It seems that this privilege is allowed 
them on this day and the following night. 

I was watching the strange sight with such a hungry, 
trembling, close attention, that I had forgotten myself. A 
great pity filled me, and their laughter made me weep. 

Suddenly, in the midst of my deep revery I saw the shout- 
ing circle stop and grow silent. Then every eye turned 
toward my window. 

“ The condemned man ! The condemned man ! ” they 
cried, shaking their fingers; and the bursts of laughter in- 
creased. 

I stood petrified. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 257 


I had no idea where they had seen me before or how they 
recognized me. 

“ Good-morning ! Good-evening ! ” they cried, with their 
horrible chuckle. One of the youngest who was condemned 
to the galleys gave me a dull look of envy, and exclaimed : 
“He is happy ! He will be cut off! (beheaded!) Farewell, 
comrade ! ” 

I cannot describe my feelings. I was their comrade, in 
truth. La Greve is sister to Toulon. I was even on a lower 
level than they ; they did me an honor. I shivered. 

Yes, their comrade ! And in a few days I, too, might be 
an amusing sight for them. 

I was standing at the window, immovable, petrified, para- 
lyzed ; but when I saw the five cordons rush toward me with 
words of infernal good-fellowship, when I heard the frightful 
clanking of their chains, their shouts, their steps at the foot 
of the wall, it seemed as though this crowd of demons were 
climbing into my wretched cell. I gave a shriek, and hurled 
myself against the door with force enough to break it. No 
means of escape ; the locks were drawn on the outside. I 
yelled, I shouted in fury. Then I seemed to hear the con- 
victs’ fearful voices coming nearer. I thought that their 
hideous faces were already at my window; I gave a second 
agonizing cry, and fell senseless to the floor. 


258 THE LAST HAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

When I recovered consciousness it was night. I was on a 
pallet ; a lantern threw a flickering light on the ceiling, and I 
saw rows of other pallets on both sides of mine. I knew that 
I was in the hospital. For a moment I lay awake, but with- 
out thinking of anything, entirely given up to the joy of 
being in a bed. Once, this hospital and prison-cot would 
have made me shudder in disgust and pity ; but I was no 
longer the same man. To be sure, the sheets were soiled and 
coarse to the touch, and the covering thin and ragged. I felt 
the boards beneath the mattress ; but what of that ? My 
limbs could stretch out between the rough sheets ; and beneath 
the covering, thin as it was, I felt that horrible cold in my 
bones slowly beginning to disappear. I fell asleep again. 

I was awakened by a great uproar ; it was daybreak. The 
noise came from without. My bed was by the side of a win- 
dow, and I rose to see what was happening. 

The window looked out upon the great court of BicStre, 
which was filled with people ; two lines of veterans had all 
they could do to make a narrow path across the court in the 
midst of the crowd. 

Between this double line of soldiers, five long wagons full 
of men were jogging slowly along, jostling over each stone. 
They were the convicts who were leaving. 

The wagons were uncovered. Each cordon occupied one. 
The convicts were seated sidewise on the benches, one lean- 
ing against the other, separated by their common chain, 
which lay along the entire length of the wagon, at the end 
of which stood a keeper, gun in hand. The clanking of the 
irons could be heard : and at every shake of the wagon, their 
heads were jerked forward and their dangling legs shook. 


the last bay of a condemned man. 259 


A fine, thin rain was falling, making the air frigid, and 
causing their gray linen trousers, which were already black, 
to cling to their knees. The rain poured from their long 
beards and short hair, their faces were purple ; they were 
shivering, and their teeth chattered with rage and cold. 
More than this, they could not move. Once riveted within 
the chain, one is no longer anything but a part of that hid- 
eous cordon which moves like one man. The intellect leaves 
one ; the prison-collar condemns it to death ; and as to the 
being himself, he has no longer desires and an appetite ex- 
cept at fixed hours. So, motionless, the most of them half- 
naked, with bare heads and dangling feet, they began their 
journey of twenty-five days, seated in the same wagons, and 
dressed in the same clothes under the perpendicular sun of 
July as in the cold rains of November. One might say that 
in their office of hangmen, men wish the climate to do half. 

Some sort of a horrible harangue arose between the people 
and those in the wagons, — abuse on the one side, bravado on 
the other, curses on both ; but at a sign from the captain, I 
saw blows raining from the baton upon the wagons, on shoul- 
ders and heads alike, and everything assumed that exterior 
calm called order. But the wretches’ eyes were full of ven- 
geance, and their fists were clinched on their knees. 

The five wagons, guarded by mounted gendarmes and keep- 
ers on foot, disappeared one after another beneath the high 
arched gate of Bicetre ; a sixth followed, in which the kettles, 
brass porringers, and extra chains rattled together in noisy 
confusion. Some keepers who had been detained at the can- 
teen ran out to catch up with their squad. The crowd began 
to scatter. The picture vanished like a phantasmagoria. By 
degrees, the heavy rolling of the wheels and the tramp of the 
horses’ hoofs on the paved road from Fontainebleau grew faint, 
and the crack of the whips, the clank of the chains, and the 
cries of the people wishing the galleys an unlucky journey, 
died away. 

But for them it was only the beginning ! 


260 THE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


What was it the lawyer said to me ? The galleys ! Ah, 
yes ! death a thousand times, — the scaffold rather than the 
galleys ; nothing rather than hell. I would give my neck to 
the knife of the guillotine, but not to the prison-collar ! The 
galleys, just Heaven ! 


the last bay of a condemned man. 261 


CHAPTER XV. 

Unfortunately I was not ill, and the next day I had to 
leave the hospital and return to my cell. 

Not ill ! Ah no, I am young, strong, and healthy. The 
blood runs freely in my veins ; my every member answers my 
every fancy. I am strong in mind and body, I was made to 
live long ; yes, this is all true, and yet I have a malady, — a 
mortal malady, a malady made by the hand of man. 

Since I came from the hospital, the idea has come to me to 
become mad ; perhaps I might escape if I could do this. The 
doctors and the Sisters of Charity seemed to be interested in 
me. To die so young, and such a death ! One would have 
thought they were sorry for me, they gathered so close about 
my pallet. Bah ! it was from curiosity. And then, these 
people who help you, cure you of a fever, but not of a death- 
sentence. Yet that would be so easy for them. An open 
door ! What would it matter to them ? 

I have no chance now ; my appeal will be rejected because 
everything is correct. The witnesses testified clearly; the 
plaintiffs have pleaded well ; the judges have sentenced. I 
do not expect — but — no ; what folly ! There is no more 
hope. The appeal is a rope which holds you suspended above 
an abyss, and which creaks every moment until it breaks. 
It is as if the knife of the guillotine took six weeks to fall. 

Suppose I were pardoned ? — Pardoned ! And by whom ? 
And why ? And how ? It is not possible for them to pardon 
me. It is for an example , as they say. 

Only three steps remain for me, — Bicetre, the Conciergerie, 
La Greve. 


262 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN . 


CHAPTER XVI. 

During the few hours that I spent in the hospital I sat 
near a window in the sunshine, — it had come out again, — 
or at least in as much of it as could creep in through the 
grating. 

I sat there, with my heavy head in my hands, which was 
more than they could hold, my elbows on my knees, and my 
feet on the rounds of my chair, for I am so weak that I lean 
over as though I no longer had either bones in my limbs or 
muscles in my flesh. 

The close air of the prison was worse than ever ; my ears 
still rang with the noise of the galleys’ chains, and I was 
growing very tired of Bicetre. It seemed to me that God 
ought to pity me, that he might at least send me a little bird 
to sing to me from the edge of the opposite roof. 

I do not know whether it was God or the Devil who answered 
my wish, but almost at that very moment I heard a voice be- 
neath my window ; not that of a bird, but, what was better, the 
pure, fresh, clear voice of a young girl of fifteen. I raised my 
head with a start, and listened greedily to the song she sung. 
The air was slow and languishing, a kind of sad and lamentable 
cooing. The words were something like these : — 

* It was in the Rue du Mail 
I was caught, oh, sorry tale! 

Wretched I! 

By three gendarmes, cruel men, 

Who came rushing at me when 
I passed by.” 

I cannot tell you how bitter was my disappointment. The 
voice sang on ; — 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


263 


“They came rushing at me, so! 

Put great handcuffs on me, oh! 

Such a load. 

Then arrived the police-spy, 

And a robber-friend came by 
On the road, 

A friend both quick and rife [nimble]. 
And I cried : ‘ Go tell my wife 
I am caught ! ’ 

Then my wife came with a run, 

‘ Husband, tell me, what hast done ? * 
(Thus she fought.) 

Thus my wife in rage began, 

And I said : ‘I’ve killed a man 
Oh, my dear! 

His gold watch and money too, 

And his rings so bright and new, 

I have here! 

‘Yes, his rings so new and bright!’ 
My poor wife set out that night 
For Versailles; 

A petition she did bring 

For my pardon; begged the king, 

With a cryl 

Sought the king to plead my cause. 
And had I escaped the laws, 

Wretched I, 

I would deck my wife, I say, 

In rich silks, and ribbons gay 
I would buy. 

Slippers, too, Id have her wear; 

But the king in wrath did swear : 

‘By my crown! 

I will make him dance a dance 
O’er a floorless, broad expanse. 
Dangling down!’ ” 


I could hear no more, nor did I wish to. The half-veiled 
meaning of the horrible complaint j the struggle of the brigand 


264 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


with the sentinel ; the robber he meets and sends to his wife 
with the horrible message : “ I have killed a man, and have 
been arrested,” u I have made an oak-tree sweat , and I am 
caught the woman running to Versailles with a petition, 
and his Majesty growing indignant and threatening the ac- 
cused to make him dance the dance where there is no floor , — 
all this sung to the sweetest tune in the sweetest voice human 
ear ever heard ! I was amazed, petrified, completely broken 
down. It was so dreadful that all these terrible words should 
come from such fresh and rosy lips. It was like drivel from 
a slug on a rose. 

I cannot describe my feelings; I was both ashamed and 
sorry. The patois of the prison and the galleys, such strange 
and bloody language, such hideous slang, sung by a young 
girl, in a voice that was a graceful combination of a child’s 
and a woman’s ! All these deformed, shapeless words sung 
with such delicacy and rhythm. 

Ah, what an infamous place a prison is ! There is a poi- 
son about it which spoils everything. Everything is tar- 
nished by it, even the song of a young girl of fifteen. You 
find a bird there ; it has mud on its wing : you gather a pretty 
flower, you smell it ; its odor is offensive. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 265 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Oh, if I could only escape, how I would run ! 

But no, one should not run. That would rouse suspicion. 
One should walk slowly, and sing, with head erect. If possi- 
ble, one should wear an old blue smock-frock with red figures 
on it. That would be a good disguise. Every gardener in 
the neighborhood wears one. 

I know a thicket near Arcueil, by the side of a swamp, 
where I used to come with the fellows every Thursday when 
I was at college, to fish for frogs. I would hide there until 
evening. 

When night came I would go on again. I would go to Vin- 
cennes. No; the river would prevent me. I would go to 
Arpajon. It might be better to go by Saint-Germain, to 
Havre, and embark for England. 

Well, in any case, I would finally reach Longjumeau. A 
gendarme passes me. He asks for my passport. I am lost ! 

Ah, poor dreamer ! first break the three feet of thick wall 
which holds you a prisoner ! Death ! Death ! 

And to think that once when I was a child I came here to 
Bicetre, to see the great dungeons and the madmen ! 


266 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

While I have been writing all this, my lamp has grown 
dim, daylight has come, the chapel clock has struck six — 

What does that mean ? My keeper has just been into my 
cell ; he took off his cap, bowed to me, apologized for disturb- 
ing me, and asked me in as mild a tone as his rough voice 
could command, what I wanted for breakfast. 

I began to shiver. Will it happen to-day ? 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 267 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Yes, it is going to happen to-day ! 

The director of the prison came himself to see me. He 
asked me what he could do for me. He hoped I had nothing 
to complain of, either in regard to him or his subordinates ; 
asked with interest about my health, and how I had passed 
the night. As he was leaving, he called me sir ! 

It is to happen to-day ! 


268 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XX. 

This jailer thinks I have no complaint to make of him or 
his subordinates, and he is right. It would be wrong indeed 
of me to complain ; they have done their duty in guarding 
me carefully ; and they have been polite at all times. Should 
I not be content ? 

This good jailer, with his gentle smile and kind words, his 
eye which flatters and at the same time spies, his great thick 
hands, — he is the prison incarnate; he is Bicetre personified. 
Everything is a prison about me. I find it in every form ; 
under the human form as under that of lock and key. This 
wall is the prison in stone ; this door is the prison in wood ; 
the keepers are prisons in flesh and bone. The prison is a 
horrible being, complete, indivisible, — half-house, half-man. 
I am its prey : it broods over me ; it holds me in its close 
embrace ; it encloses me within its granite walls, clasps me 
beneath its iron bolts, and watches me with its jailer’s eyes. 

Ah, wretch that I am ! what shall I become ? What do 
they want to do with me ? 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


269 


CHAPTER XXI. 

I am calm now. All is well over. I have recovered from 
the horrible anxiety which the director’s visit gave me. Eor, 
I will confess, I did have hope. Now, thank God, I have 
none. 

This is what has just taken place : — 

Just as the clock struck half -past six — no, a quarter-past — 
my prison door opened. An old man with white hair, in a 
long brown cloak, entered. His cloak was thrown back, and I 
saw a cassock and a band. He was a priest. 

But he was not the prison chaplain, and this did not augur 
well. 

He sat down opposite me, and smiled kindly; then he 
bowed his head, and raised his eyes to heaven, — that is, to 
the ceiling of my cell. I understood what he meant. 

“ My son,” said he, “are you prepared ? ” 

I answered in a weak voice, — 

“I am not prepared, but I am ready.” 

A mist rose before my>eyes, an icy perspiration came out 
all over me ; I felt my temples swelling and my ears ringing. 

While I swaye,d in my chair as though half asleep, the 
good man talked to me. 

At least, I think he did ; I seem to remember that his lips 
moved ; and, while his hands clasped each other, his eyes 
lighted up. 

The door opened a second time. The grating of the key 
roused me from my stupor and him from his discourse. A 
gentleman in black, accompanied by the director of the prison, 
appeared, and bowed low to me. The man wore on his face 
that sad official look which belongs to undertakers. He held 
a roll of paper in his hand. 


270 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


“ Monsieur/’ lie said with a courteous smile, “ I am the 
bailiff from the royal court-house of Paris. I have the honor 
to bring you a message from the attorney-general.” 

The first shock over, all my presence of mind returned. 

"Is it the attorney-general,” I asked, “who demands my 
head ? I feel highly honored that he has written to me. I 
trust that my death will give him much pleasure ; for it would 
be hard to think that he asked for it so anxiously, and that 
after all it was indifferent to him.” 

I said all this, and continued in a firm voice, — 

“ Read it, sir.” 

He began to read a long document, chanting at the end 
of every line, and hesitating between each word. It was the 
refusal of my appeal. 

“The sentence will be carried out to-day, on the Place 
de Greve,” he added, when he had finished, and without rais- 
ing his eyes from the paper. “ We leave at exactly half-past 
seven for the Conciergerie. My dear sir, will you be good 
enough to be ready ? ” 

I had heard nothing for a moment or two. The director 
was talking with the priest, who was gazing at the paper. I 
glanced toward the half-open door. Ah, miserable fool ! four 
soldiers stood in the corridor ! 

The bailiff repeated his question, this time looking at me. 

“ Whenever you please,” I replied. “ You may make your- 
self easy.” He bowed, saying, — 

“I shall have the honor of returning for you in half an 
hour.” 

Then they left me alone. 

0 God ! some means of escape ! some means ; I know not 
what ! I must escape ! I must ! And at once ! By the door, 
the window, through the timbers of the roof ! Even though 
I leave my skin on the beams ! 

Oh, fury ! demons ! malediction ! It would take months to 
pierce through the walls with the best of instruments, and 
I have not even a nail or an hour ! 


THE LAST HAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 271 


CHAPTER XXII. 

IN THE CONCIERGERIE. 

Here I am transferred, as the report says. 

But the journey is worth describing. 

The clock was striking half-past seven as the bailiff again 
presented himself at the door of my cell. “ Monsieur/’ said 
he, “ I am ready for you.” Alas ! he and others as well ! 

I rose and took one step forward ; it seemed as though I 
could not take another, my head was so heavy and my limbs 
so weak. But after a moment I recovered myself, and walked 
with firm steps. Before leaving the cell, I cast a last glance 
at it. I loved it, that cell ! Then I left it empty and open ; 
a strange thing in a cell. 

But it will not remain so very long. This evening they 
expect some one, the jailers said, a convict whom the Court 
of Assizes is sentencing even now. 

At a turn of the corridor the priest joined us. He had just 
breakfasted. 

As we left the jail, the director took me affectionately by 
the hand, and added four veterans to my escort. 

Before the door of the hospital, a dying old man cried out 
to me, 11 Ait revoir ! ” 

We reached the courtyard, where I breathed again ; the air 
did me good. 

We did not walk far, however. 

A carriage drawn by post-horses was waiting in the first 
court ; it was the same that had brought me, a kind of long 
cabriolet, divided into two sections by a longitudinal grating 
of iron wire, so thick that it looked as if it might have been 
knitted. Each section had a door, one in front, the other at 


272 THE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


the rear of the cabriolet. The whole thing was so dirty, so 
black and dusty, that a hearse for paupers wpuld be a king’s 
chariot in comparison. 

Before burying myself in this two-wheeled tomb, I glanced 
about the yard with a desperate look, before which the very 
walls might have crumbled. The court, a small square, 
planted with trees, was even fuller of spectators than it had 
been for the galleys. Already the crowd had begun ! 

As on the day of the departure of the galleys, a fine, icy 
rain was falling, which is coming down even now as I write, 
and which will probably continue all day, even after I am 
gone. 

The roads were rough, the court-yard full of mud and water. 
I was glad to see the crowd standing in all this mud. 

The bailiff and a gendarme stepped into the front compart- 
ment, the priest, a second gendarme, and myself into the 
other. There were four mounted gendarmes around the car- 
riage. So, without the driver, there were eight men to one. 

As I stepped in, an old woman with gray eyes exclaimed, 
“ I like this even better than the galleys.” 

I understood what she meant. It was a sight that was 
more easily grasped and sooner over. It was just as pleas- 
ant, and more convenient. There is nothing to distract one. 
There is only one man, and on him alone is centred as 
much misery as on all the galleys together. Only it is less 
scattered ; it is a concentrated liquor, and much sweeter. 

The carriage began to move. It made a dull sound as it 
passed under the arch of the great entrance ; then it turned 
into the avenue, and the dark walls of Bicetre were lost be- 
hind us. As in a stupor I felt myself carried on, like a 
man in a lethargy, who knows that he is being buried, yet 
who can neither move nor cry. In a vague way I heard 
the jingling of the bells on the horses’ necks, keeping time, 
and playing a sort of hiccough, the iron wheels moving 
over the pavement or grating against the carriage as it 
crossed the ruts in the road, the even galop of the gendarmes 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 273 


on either side of the carriage, and the lashing of the driver’s 
whip. It all seemed like a whirlwind that was sweeping 
me away. 

Through a hole in the wire grating opposite me, my eyes 
fell mechanically on the inscription engraved in large letters 
above the great door of Bicetre : “ Hospital for the Aged.” 

“ Ah,” I said to myself, “ there are people who indeed grow 
old there.” 

And as happens between sleep and waking, I turned the 
idea over and over again in my mind, which was already 
dull with grief. All at once the carriage passed from the 
avenue into the highroad, and the point of view of my sky- 
light was changed. The towers of Notre Dame arose blue and 
dim in the mist of Paris. Immediately the view-point of my 
mind changed also. I was a machine like the carriage. To the 
thought of Bicetre now succeeded the thought of the towers 
of Notre Dame. “ Those who are on the tower where the flag 
is have a fine view,” I said to myself, smiling stupidly. 

I think that it was at that moment that the priest began 
to speak. I patiently let him talk. The noise of the wheels, 
the gallop of the horses, the lash of the driver’s whip, still 
were in my ears. The priest’s words were only an extra 
noise. 

So I listened in silence to the monotonous fall of words 
which lulled my mind like the murmur of a fountain, and 
which passed before me, always varied, yet always the same, 
like the gnarled elms along the highroad, when suddenly I 
was roused by the sharp, jerky voice of the bailiff. 

“Well, Monsieur Abbe,” said he, in a tone that sounded 
almost gay, “ what news have you ? ” 

He turned to the priest. 

The latter continued talking to me, and made no reply. 
The noise of the carriage-wheels drowned the bailiff’s words. 

“ Oh ! ” he continued, raising his voice above the noise of 
the carriage ; “ this infernal wagon ! ” 

Infernal indeed ! 


274 THE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


He went on, — 

“No doubt it is the joggling of the carriage that prevents 
his hearing me. What was I saying ? Tell me what was I 
saying, Monsieur Abbe ? Oh, yes ! Do you know the news 
of Paris to-day ? ” 

I swayed, as though he were speaking of me. 

“ No,” replied the priest, who finally heard ; “ I had no 
time to read the papers this morning. I shall see them this 
evening. When I am busy like this all day, I tell my porter 
to* keep my papers, and I read them on my return.” 

“ Bah ! ” resumed the bailiff, “ you must know this. The 
news of Paris ! the news of this morning ! ” 

I spoke. 

“ I think I know it.” 

The bailiff looked at me. 

“ You ! Indeed ! In that case, what do you think of it ? ” 

“ You are curious ! ” I replied. 

“ And why, sir ? ” asked the bailiff. “ Every one has his 
political opinion, and I esteem you too highly to think that 
you are without one. As for me, I am entirely of the opinion 
that the National Guard should be restored. I was sergeant 
of my company, and it was very pleasant.” 

I interrupted him. 

“I did not know that this was the news.” 

“ And what is it, then ? You said you knew.” 

“ I was referring to something else, in which Paris is in- 
terested to-day.” 

The stupid fellow did not understand, and his curiosity 
was roused. 

“ Something else ? Where in the devil could you learn any 
news ? What is it, my dear sir ? Do you know what' it is, 
Monsieur Abbe ? Are you better informed than I ? Tell 
me, I beg you. What is this news ? You know I love 
news. I tell it to the President, and it amuses him.” 

And a thousand idle stories they are, too, that he tells. He 
turned first to the priest and then to me ; but I only shrugged 
my shoulders. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 275 


“ W ell,” said he, “ of what are you thinking ? ” 

“I think,” I answered, “that I will not think any more 
this evening,” 

“ Ah, yes, of course ! ” he replied. “ But come ! you are too 
sad ! Monsieur Castaing talked.” 

Then, after a pause, — 

“ I escorted Monsieur Papavoine ; he wore his otter cap, 
and smoked his cigar. As to the young fellows of La Ro- 
chelle, they talked only among themselves. But they talked.” 

Another pause ; then he continued, — 

“ Fools ! Enthusiasts ! Apparently they scorned the whole 
world. But for what you have done, I find you very pensive, 
young man.” 

“ 1 Young man V 99 I cried ; “ I am older than you ; and 
every fifteen minutes makes me a year older, besides.” 

He turned, looked at me a moment in stupid wonder, and 
then began to laugh loudly. 

“Come! you are jesting, you older than I ! I might well 
be your grandfather ! ” 

“ I am not jesting,” I answered sadly. 

He opened his tobacco pouch. 

“ Here, my dear sir, do not be angry ; take a pinch of 
tobacco, and do not bear me ill-will.” 

“ Do not fear ; I shall not have long to bear it.” 

Just then his tobacco pouch, which he offered me, came 
in contact with the wire grating between us. A jolt of the 
carriage knocked it out of his hand, and it fell violently to 
the floor, at the gendarme’s feet. 

“ Cursed grating ! 99 cried the bailiff. 

He turned to me. 

“ Am I not unfortunate ? All my tobacco is lost ! ” 

“ I am losing more than you,” I replied, smiling. 

He tried to gather up the tobacco, muttering between his 
teeth, — 

“ More than I ! That is easy to say ! But no tobacco all 
the way to Paris ! It’s dreadful ! ” 


276 THE LAST DAT OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 

The priest addressed a few consoling words to him ; and, 
perhaps I was dreaming, but it seemed as though it were the 
conclusion of the exhortation, the beginning of which I had 
heard. By degrees the conversation was carried on only be- 
tween the priest and the bailiff ; I let them talk on their side, 
and gave myself up to my own thoughts on mine. 

When we reached the city limits I was still preoccupied, no 
doubt, but Paris seemed noisier than ever. 

The carriage stopped a moment at the toll-gate. The city 
custom-house officers came out to examine it. Had I been 
a sheep or an ox going to slaughter, they would have had a 
purse of silver thrown them ; but a human head does not pay 
for right of way, and we passed on. 

We crossed the Boulevard, and the cabriolet went at a rapid 
rate through the old winding streets of the Faubourg Saint- 
Marceau and La Cite, which twine and intertwine one about 
the other like the thousand paths of an ant-hill. On the 
pavement of these narrow streets the noise of the wheels 
became so loud that all other sounds were lost. When I 
glanced through the little square hole, it seemed that the 
crowd of passers-by had stopped to watch the carriage, and 
that groups of children were running after it. It seemed, too, 
as though now and then I saw on the cross-walks a ragged 
man or woman, sometimes both together, with a bundle of 
printed papers in their hands, that the people were quarrel- 
ling over, opening their mouths as though in the act of giving 
a loud cry. 

The Palace clock struck half-past eight as we reached the 
court-yard of the Conciergerie. The sight of the wide stair- 
case, the black chapel, the sinister-looking entrances, froze 
me ; and when the carriage came to a stand-still, I thought 
the beating of my heart had stopped too. 

But I gathered myself together. The gate was opened like 
lightning ; I jumped from the cell-on-wheels, and was hurried 
at rapid strides beneath the arch, between two lines of sol- 
diers. Already a great crowd had collected about me. 


THE LAST DAT OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 277 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

As I walked along the public corridors of the Palais du 
Justice I felt at my ease and almost free; but all my resolu- 
tion left me when they opened the low doors, the secret stair- 
cases, and the close and dark inner corridors, where no one 
enters except the prisoners or those who convict them. 

The bailiff never left my side. The priest went away, to 
return in two hours ; he had business to look after. 

They took me to the director’s office, where the bailiff left 
me. It was an exchange. The director begged him to wait 
an instant, saying that he had some game to give him which 
he might take at once to BicStre on the return of the carriage. 
Probably it is the man who was condemned to-day, and who, 
this evening, will lie on the straw which I had not the time 
to use. 

“Very well,” said the bailiff to the director. “I will wait 
a moment ; we can make out both reports at the same time. 
That is a good plan.” 

Meanwhile I had been put into a small office opening out 
of that of the director. There I was left alone under lock 
and key. 

I do not know of what I was thinking, nor how long I was 
there, when all at once a rough and loud burst of laughter 
roused me from my stupor. 

I raised my eyes tremblingly. I was no longer alone in 
the cell. A man was there with me, — a man about fifty-five, 
of medium height, wrinkled, round-shouldered, grayish, and 
thick-set, with an evil look in his gray eyes, and a bitter 
smile on his lips ; dirty, ragged, and half-naked, he was alto- 
gether a most repulsive sight. 

The door must have opened, thrust him in, and closed 


278 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 

again without my having noticed it. If only death might 
come in that way ! 

For a few seconds we looked at each other, that man and 
I, — he, with a laugh like a rattle; I, half-amazed, half- 
frightened. 

“ Who are you ? ” I asked at length. 

“ You have the right to ask/’ he replied ; “ I am a fri- 
auche .” 

“ A ‘ friauche ! ’ What is that ? ” 

The question seemed to augment his gayety. 

“ That,” he answered, in the midst of a fresh burst of 
laughter, “ that means that the taule will play with my Sor- 
bonne in six weekfe, as he is about to play with your body in 
six hours. Ah, ah ! it seems that now you understand.” 

I was white; my hair stood on end. He was the other 
convict, whom they were expecting at Bicetre, — my suc- 
cessor. 

He continued, — 

“ What can you expect ? I will tell you my story. I am 
the son of a good peAgrc ; it is a pity that Chariot (the hang- 
man) took the trouble once to tie his cravat. It was when 
the gallows reigned, by the grace of God. At the age of six, 
I had neither father nor mother. In the summer I rolled in 
the dust of the gutters, to see if some one would throw me a 
penny from the door of the stages ; in the winter I went about 
in the mud with bare feet, blowing on my red fingers to keep 
them warm. My skin could be seen through my trousers. 
At the age of nine I had begun to use my hands ; now and 
then I emptied a pocket or stole a cloak. At the age of ten I 
was a pickpocket. Then I made some acquaintances. At 
seventeen I was a thief. I forced open a shop by means of a 
false key. I w T as arrested. Being of age, I was sent to work 
in the galleys. It was hard there ; sleeping on a plank, drink- 
ing nothing but water, eating black bread, dragging after me a 
stupid ball, which was of no use to any one, and suffering from 
burns from a baton, and from the hot sun too. Besides all this, 


THE LAST DAT OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 279 


we were shaved, and I had such beautiful brown hair. Well, 
no matter ! I served my time. Fifteen years pass, after a 
while ! I was thirty-two. One fine morning they gave me 
a ticket and sixty-six francs, which I had saved during the 
fifteen years in the galleys by working sixteen hours a day, 
thirty days a month, and twelve months a year. That was 
all right. I wanted to be an honest man with my sixty-six 
francs, and I had more beautiful ideas under my rags than 
there are under an abbe’s cassock. But how the devils acted 
with that passport ! It was yellow, and they had written on 
it ‘ Freed galley .’ I had to show it everywhere, and present 
it every week before the mayor of the village where they 
compelled me to live. It was a fine recommendation ! A 
galley ! They were afraid of me ; the children ran from me, 
and every door was shut in my face. No one would give me 
work. I devoured my sixty-six francs. I had to live. I 
showed that my arms were strong enough to work, but they 
shut their doors. I offered to do a day’s labor for fifteen sous, 
for ten, for five. No. So what was there left for me to do ? 
One day I was hungry. I knocked in a baker’s case, seized 
some bread, and the baker seized me. I did not eat the bread ; 
and I had the galleys for life, with three letters branded on 
my shoulders. You may see them if you wish. They call this 
act of justice the second offence. I was back again to the gal- 
leys. They took me to Toulon ; this time with the life convicts. 
I had to escape. I had three walls to cut through, two chains 
to break, and one nail with which to do it ; but I succeeded. 
They shot after me ; for, like the cardinals at Borne, we were 
dressed in scarlet, and they shoot when we leave. Their 
powder went to the sparrows. This time I had no yellow 
passport, but no money either. I met some fellows who had 
served their turn or broken their chains. Their chief sug- 
gested that I join them ; they committed murders on the great 
highways. I accepted his offer, and set about killing in order 
to live. Now it was a stage-coach, now a post-chaise, now a 
cattle-dealer on horseback. We took the money, let the beast 


280 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN 


cr the wagon go, and buried the man under a tree, being care- 
ful that his feet did not stick out; then we danced on the 
spot, so that the earth would not look as though it had been 
freshly turned. I grew old in such pursuits, living in the 
brush-wood, sleeping beneath the shining stars, and wandering 
from wood to wood, but at least I was free and my own mas- 
ter. Every one has some object in life; it may as well be one 
as another. But one starry night, the gendarmes seized us by 
our collars. My comrades escaped ; but I, the eldest, was 
caught in the claws of these cats with their cockade hats. I 
was brought here. Already I had mounted every step of the 
ladder except one. To have stolen a handkerchief or murdered 
a man was all the same to me once ; there remained but one 
more recidive to apply to me. I had only to reach the hang- 
man. My trial was short. I was beginning to grow old, and 
to be of no further use. My father was hanged, and I am 
now about to enter the monastery of Mont-a-Regret (the guil- 
lotine). There, comrade ! ” 

I was speechless at his story. He began to laugh louder 
than ever, and tried to take my hand, but I recoiled in horror. 

“ Friend,” said he, “you do not look brave. Do not be a 
coward in the face of death. It will be hard for a moment, 
when you reach the Place de Greve, but it is so soon over 
with ! I should like to be there to show you how to fall. A 
thousand gods ! I would rather not make another appeal, if 
they would cut me down with you. The same priest would 
serve us both ; it is all the same to me to take your leavings. 
You see that I am a good fellow. Hey? Will you accept 
my friendship ? ” 

Again he started to approach me. 

“ Monsieur,” I replied, pushing him away, “ I thank you.” 

Fresh burst of laughter at my reply. 

“ Ah ! ah ! monsieur, you are a marquis ! You are a 
marquis ! ” 

I interrupted him. 

“ My friend, I have need to collect myself ; leave me.” 


THE LAST DAT OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 281 


The serious tone in which I uttered the words sobered him 
at once. He nodded his gray and almost bald head ; then 
imprinting his nails into his shaggy breast, which was bare 
under his open shirt, he murmured between his teeth, — 

“ Ah, I understand, the priest ! ” - 

After a few moments’ silence, — 

a Yes,” he said, almost timidly, “ you are a marquis ; that 
is good. But you have a fine cloak which will not be of much 
use to you ! The taule will take it. Give it to me ; I will 
sell it, and buy tobacco.” 

I took off my cloak, and handed it to him. He began to 
clap his hands in childish glee. Then, seeing that I was in 
my shirt-sleeves and shivering, he exclaimed, — 

“ You are cold, sir ; take this. It is raining, and you will 
get wet ; besides, one must look decent in the wagon.” 

He removed his thick gray linen coat, and put my arms 
through it. I let him do so. 

Then I leaned against the wall ; but I cannot tell what 
effect the man had on me. He began to examine the cloak 
which I had given him, crying out every second with joy, — 

“ The pockets are perfectly new ! The collar is not worn ! 
I can get at least fifteen francs for it. What luck ! Tobacco 
enough for my six weeks ! ” 

The door opened. They had come for both of us, — to es- 
cort me to the room where the convicts awaited their turn; 
to take him to Bicetre. He took his place, with a laugh, in 
the midst of the guard who was to lead him away, and said 
to the gendarmes, — 

“ Ah, do not be deceived ! Monsieur and I have changed 
our coats, that is all ; but do not mistake me for him. But 
the devil ! that would not trouble me, now that I have some- 
thing with which to get some tobacco ! ” 


282 TEE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The old criminal stole my cloak, for I did not give it to 
him ; and he left me this ragged thing, this dirty coat. What 
do I look like ? 

I did not let him take my cloak from any feeling of indif- 
ference or charity. No ; but because he was stronger than I. 
Had I refused, he would have struck me with his great fists. 

Charity indeed ! I was full of evil thoughts. I should 
have liked to strangle him with my hands, the old robber ! 
and crush him beneath my feet ! 

I feel that my heart is full of rage and bitterness. I think 
that the sack of hatred has burst. Death makes one wicked. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 283 


CHAPTER, XXV. 

They took me to a cell where there were only the four 
walls, many bars across the window, and many locks at the 
door, all of which goes without saying. 

I asked for a table, a ehair, and the necessary writing- 
materials, all of which they brought me. 

Then I asked for a bed. The jailer looked at me in sur- 
prise, as though to ask, “ Of what use ? ” 

But they put up a cot in the corner. At the same time 
a gendarme was stationed in what they called u my room.” 
Were they afraid I would strangle myself with the mattress ? 


284 THE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


It is ten o’clock. 

0 my poor little girl ! only six hours, and I shall be dead ! 
I shall be an unclean something which is dragged over the 
cold table of the amphitheatres, — a head that they will cast 
on one side, a body that they will dissect on the other ; then 
what is left on one side they will put into a coffin, and take to 
Clamart. 

This is what they are going to do with your father, these 
men who do not hate me, but who pity me, and who could 
save me. They want to kill me. Do you understand all 
this, Marie ? Kill me in cold blood, systematically, for the 
good of the thing. Ah, my God ! 

Poor little maid ! Your father who loved you so, your 
father who kissed your sweet little white neck, who ran his 
hand through your curls as through silk, who took your sweet, 
round face in his hands, who jumped you on his knees, and at 
night joined your little hands to pray to God ! 

Who is there now who will do all this for you ? Who is 
there to love you ? All the children of your age will have 
fathers except you. How can you, my child, give up, on 
New Year’s Day, the gifts, the pretty playthings, the candies, 
and kisses ? How can you, poor little orphan, give up drink- 
ing and eating ? 

Oh, if the jury had only seen my little Marie, they would 
have understood that they must not kill the father of a baby 
three years old ! 

And when she grows up, if she lives, what will become of 
her ? Her father will be one of the souvenirs of the people 
of Paris. She will blush for me and my name ; she will 
be scorned, repulsed, despised, on account of me — me, who 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 285 


loves her with my whole heart. 0 my beloved little Marie ! 
Is it really true that you will feel shame and horror for 
me ? 

Miserable wretch ! what a crime I have committed, and 
what a crime I am about to make society commit ! 

Oh, is it really true that I am going to die before the close 
of the day? Is it really true that it is I? Yes, this dull 
sound of cries which I hear outside, this crowd of joyous 
people who are already running to the wharves, the gen- 
darmes who are getting themselves ready in their barracks, 
the priest in his black gown, the other man with the red hands, 
— it is all for me ! It is I who am going to die ! I, this very 
I who am here, who am living, moving, and breathing, who 
is seated at this table, which is like another table, and might 
be elsewhere. It is I, whom I touch and feel, and whose 
clothing makes these folds ! 


286 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

If only I knew how it was done, and in what way they died 
there ; but it is horrible, because I do not know. 

The name of the thing is frightful, and I do not understand 
how I ever could have written or pronounced it. 

The combination of those ten letters, their shape, their ap- 
pearance, may well arouse a frightful idea. The physician 
of evil who invented the thing had a predestined name. 

The picture which this hideous word brings before me is 
vague, indistinct, and sinister. Every syllable is like a part 
of the machine. In my mind I build and overthrow the mon- 
strous scaffold unceasingly. 

I dare not ask a question ; but it is frightful not to know 
what it is, or how it works. It seems that there is a see- 
saw, and that you lie down on your stomach. Ah ! my hair 
will turn white before my head falls ! 


THE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 287 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

But once I saw it. 

I was driving over the Place de Greve one day, about eleven 
o’clock in the morning. All at once the carriage stopped. 

There was a crowd on the Place. I put my head out of the 
window. Crowds filled La Greve and the wharf; and men, 
women, and children were standing on the parapet. Above 
the heads I saw a kind of platform of red wood, that three 
men were erecting. 

A convict was to be executed that very day, and they were 
building the machine. 

I turned my head aside before I saw any more. Beside 
my carriage a woman said to a child, — 

“ See ! look ! the knife works badly ; they are going to oil 
the groove with candle-grease.” 

That is probably what they are doing to-day. Eleven 
o’clock has just struck. No doubt they are oiling the groove. 

Ah, this time, wretch that I am, I shall not turn aside my 
head ! 


288 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Oh, my pardon ! my pardon ! Perhaps they will pardon me. 
The king bears me no ill-will. Let them find my lawyer ! 
quick, my lawyer ! I want the galleys. Five years in the 
galleys, and let it all end, or twenty years — or life with the 
crimson brand. But pardon for my life ! 

A criminal can still walk ; he can come and go ; he can see 
the sun. 


THE LAST BAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 289 


CHAPTER XXX. 

The priest has returned. 

He has white hair, a quiet manner, and a kind and gentle 
face ; he is a good and charitable man. This morning I saw 
him empty his purse into the hands of the prisoners. How 
does it happen that his voice has nothing which may move or 
be moved? How does it happen that he has not told me 
anything which appealed to my heart or my mind ? 

This morning my thoughts were wandering. I scarcely 
heard what he said to me. But his words seemed useless, and 
I was indifferent ; they fell like the cold rain on that icy win- 
dow. 

But when he came in just now, the sight of him did me 
good. Among all these men, he alone is still a man for me, I 
say to myself. And he gave me a great thirst for good and 
consoling words. 

We sat down, he on the chair, I on the bed. He said to 
me, “ My son.” This word opened my heart. He contin- 
ued : — 

“ My son, do you believe in God ? ” 

“ Yes, my father,” I answered. 

“ Do you believe in the holy Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman 
Church ? ” 

“ Yes,” I replied. 

“My son,” he continued, “you seem by your manner to 
doubt.” 

Then he began to speak. He talked a long time ; he used 
many words. When he thought he had finished, he rose and 
looked at me for the first time since the beginning of his dis- 
course. 

“Well?” he asked. 


290 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 

I declare that I listened to him first with eagerness, then 
with attention, then with devotion. 

I rose too. 

“ Monsieur,” I replied, “ leave me alone, I beg.” 

“ When shall I return ? ” he asked. 

“ I will let you know.” 

Then he went out without a word, but shaking his head as 
though saying, — 

“ An unbeliever !” 

But no, low as I may have fallen, I am not that ; God is my 
witness that I believe in him. But what did the old man 
say to me ? Nothing which roused any feeling, any tender- 
ness, any tears ; nothing from the soul ; nothing which came 
straight from his heart into mine ; nothing which came from 
him to me. On the contrary, something vague, indistinct, ap- 
plicable to everything and everybody ; emphatic where there 
was need for depth, dull where it should have been simple, — 
a kind of sentimental sermon and theological elegy. Here 
and there a Latin quotation in Latin. Saint Augustine, Saint 
Gregory — what do I care about them ? And then he seemed 
to be reciting a lesson which he had recited twenty times al- 
ready, or of repeating a theme which was almost worn out 
from having been so long in his mind. There was no expres- 
sion in his eyes, no feeling in his voice, no meaning in his 
gestures. 

Yet how could it be otherwise ? This priest is the official 
chaplain of the prison. His mission is to console and exhort, 
and he lives on this. The galleys, the victims, are the re- 
source of his eloquence. He confesses and attends them, 
because he has his position to fill. He has grown old in 
leading men to death. For a long time he has been accus- 
tomed to that before which others tremble. His locks, well 
powdered with white, no longer stand on end; the galleys 
and the scaffold are everyday affairs for him. He is blase. 
Probably he has his copybook, — such a page for the galleys ; 
such a page for the convict condemned to die. He is told 



“BUT THIS GOOD OLD MAN,— WHAT IS HE TO ME, OR I TO HIM?” 





THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 291 


the evening before, that there will be some one for him to 
console at such an hour the next day. He asks who it is, 
galley or convict, and re-reads the page; then he makes his 
visit. In this way it happens that those who are bound for 
Toulon and those who are to go to La Greve are common 
ground for him, and he for them. 

Oh, if instead of all this they would send me some young 
vicar, or an old curate in charge of his first parish ; if they 
would go to him in the corner of his fireplace, where he is 
reading his book and expecting nothing, and say to him : — 

“ There is a man who is about to die, and you are the one 
who must console him. You must be there when they bind 
his hands, when they cut off his hair ; you must enter the 
wagon with him, and with your crucifix hide the hangman 
from him ; you must be jostled with him over the pavement 
to La Greve ; you must go with him through the horrible 
crowd, drunk" with blood ; you must embrace him at the foot 
of the scaffold ; you must stay there until his head is severed 
from his body.” 

And when they brought him to me, trembling, and shiver- 
ing from head to foot, I would throw myself into his arms, 
and at his feet ; and he would cry, and we would cry together, 
and he would grow eloquent, and I would be consoled ; my 
heart would unburden itself against his, and he would take 
my soul, and I would take his God. 

But this good old man, — what is he to me, or I to him ? 
An unhappy individual, a shadow, like many another he has 
already seen — a unit to add to the number of executions. 

Perhaps I am wrong thus to repel him ; it is he who is 
good, and I who am bad. Alas ! it is not my fault. It is the 
atmosphere of the prison which spoils and kills everything. 

They have just brought me some food ; they thought that I 
must be in need of it. The tray is neat and dainty ; and there 
is a chicken, I think, besides other things. Well ! I tried to 
eat ; but at the first bite everything fell from my mouth, it 
tasted so bitter and nauseating ! 


292 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A man just came in, with his hat on his head; but he 
scarcely noticed me. He opened a foot-rule, and began to 
measure the height of the stones in the wall, speaking in a 
very loud voice, and saying, “ That is right;” or, “ That is 
not right.” 

I asked the gendarme who he was. It seems that he is 
an under-architect employed in the prison. 

On his part, his curiosity was aroused concerning me. He 
exchanged a few words in a low tone with the jailers who 
accompanied him, looked at me an instant, shook his head 
carelessly, and returned to his measuring, speaking in a loud 
voice. 

His duty finished, he approached me, saying in his loud 
tones, — 

“ My good friend, in six months this prison will be greatly 
improved.” 

And his gestures seemed to add, — 

“ You will not enjoy it ; what a pity ! ” 

He almost smiled. I thought he was going to tease me, as 
one might tease a young bride on her wedding-night. 

My gendarme, an old soldier with chevrons, replied for 
me, — 

“ Monsieur, we do not speak so loud in a death-chamber.” 

The architect went away. 

And I was left there, like one of the stones he had meas- 
ured. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 293 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Then a funny thing happened. 

They had taken away my kind old gendarme, whom I had 
not even shaken by the hand, ungrateful egoist that I am. 
Another took his place, a man with a low brow, eyes like a 
cow’s, and a stupid face. 

I paid no attention to him, but sat before the table with 
my back to the door. I was trying to cool my brow with my 
hand, for I was troubled in mind. 

A light touch on my shoulder made me turn. It was the 
new gendarme, who was alone with me. 

This is somewhat the way in which he addressed me. 

“ Criminal, have you a kind heart ? ” 

“No,” I replied. 

The brusqueness of my answer seemed to disconcert him. 
But he continued hesitatingly, — 

“ One is not bad for the pleasure of being so.” 

“ And why not ? ” I asked. “If you have nothing else to 
say to me, leave me. What are you aiming at ?” 

“I beg. pardon, my criminal,” he replied; “just two words. 
These: If you could make a poor man happy, without its 
costing you anything, would you not do so ? ” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“ Do you come from Charenton ? You choose a strange 
vase from which to draw happiness. I make any one 
happy ! ” 

He lowered his voice, and assumed an air of mystery, which 
was not in keeping with his stupid face. 

“ Yes, criminal, happy and lucky. You can make me all 
this. Listen. I am a poor gendarme. My duties are heavy, 
my pay is small ; my horse is my own, and is the ruin of me. 


294 THE LAST DAT OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


But to offset this I take shares in the lottery. One must 
have some business. Until now I have needed nothing in 
order to win except lucky numbers. I look everywhere for 
sure ones ; but I always fall to one side. I place 76 ; it 
draws 77. In vain have I kept them ; they do not come. 
A little patience, please ; I am almost through. But here is a 
lucky chance for me. It seems — pardon me, criminal — that 
you are to die to-day. It is a well-known fact that those who 
die in this way see the lottery in advance. Promise me to 
come to-morrow evening, — what difference will it make to 
you ? — and give me three numbers, three good ones. Hey ? 
I am not afraid of ghosts, you may be sure. This is my 
address : Caserne Popincourt, staircase A, number 26, at the 
end of the corridor. You will recognize me, won’t you ? 
Come even this evening, if it is more convenient for you.” 

I would have scorned answering him — the imbecile ! — if a 
mad hope had not crossed my mind. In such a desperate po- 
sition one occasionally imagines that a chain can be broken 
by a thread. 

“ Listen,” I said, acting the comedian as much as is possi- 
ble when one is about to die, “ I will make you richer than 
the king, so that you can win millions — on one condition.” 

He opened his stupid eyes. 

“ What condition ? What ? Anything to please you, my 
criminal.” 

“ Instead of three numbers, I promise you four. Change 
clothes with me.” 

“ If that is all ! ” he cried, unhooking the top hooks of his 
uniform. 

I rose from my chair. I watched his every movement with 
a beating heart. Already I saw the doors opening before the 
gendarme’s uniform, and the Place, the street, and the Palais 
of Justice behind me ! 

But he turned with an undecided air. 

“ Ah, is this in order that you may escape ? ” 

Then I knew that all was lost, yet I tried a last resort, 
which was foolish and useless. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 295 


“ Yes,” I replied, “ but your fortune is made.” 

He interrupted. 

‘•'Well, no ! Not so fast ! You must be dead for my num- 
bers to be lucky ones.” 

I sat down mute, in greater despair than ever, after the 
hope I had had. 


296 THE LAST DAT OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

I closed my eyes, and raised my hands, trying to forget 
the present in the past. As I dreamed, thoughts of my child- 
hood and early manhood came back to me one by one, sweet, 
calm, and smiling, like islands of flowers, across the gulf of 
black and confused thoughts which were seething in my brain. 

I was a child again, a merry, laughing schoolboy, playing, 
running, and shouting with my brothers in the great green 
paths of the wild garden where I passed my early years, 
in an old yard belonging to a convent, over which towered the 
dark dome of the Val-de-Grace. 

And then four years later, a child still, but dreamy and pas- 
sionate. There was a young girl in the lonely garden. 

Pepa, a little Spanish maid of fourteen, with great eyes, 
thick hair, a golden-brown skin, and red lips and rosy cheeks. 

Our mothers told us to go and run together; but we 
walked. 

They told us to play, but we talked, children of the same 
age, but of different sex. 

There was only one year left for us to run and quarrel to- 
gether. I argued with Pepita over the most beautiful apple 
on the tree ; I struck her for a bird’s nest. She cried : I said, 
“ That served you right ! ” and we went to our mothers with 
our complaints ; and they told us aloud that we were in the 
wrong, but whispered aside to us that we were right. 

Later she is leaning on my arm, and I am proud and happy. 
We walk slowly, and speak in low tones. She drops her 
handkerchief; I pick it up for her. Our trembling hands 
touch. She tells me about the little birds, about the star 
which is visible beyond, about the crimson sun setting behind 
the trees, or about her schoolmates, her dress, and her rib- 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 297 


bons. We make innocent remarks, and both of us blush. 
The little maid has grown into a young woman. 

That evening — it was summer — we were under the chest- 
nut-trees, at the end of the garden. After one of those long 
pauses with which our conversation abounded, she dropped 
my arm, exclaiming, “ Let us run ! ” 

I can see her now ; she was in black, in mourning for her 
grandmother. This childish idea had entered her head ; Pepa 
was Pepita again, as she cried, “ Let us run ! ” 

She started ahead of me, her slender waist like a wasp’s, 
and her flying skirts showing her little feet above the ankles, 
I sped after her. Now and then the wind raised her black 
tippet, and I saw her soft brown neck. 

I was beside myself. At last I caught her near an old 
ruined well. I seized her by the waist, by right of conquest, 
and made her sit down on a grassy knoll ; she did not resist. 
She was out of breath, and smiling. I was serious, and I 
watched her black eyes behind her dark lashes. 

“ Sit here,” she said to me. “ It is still daylight ; let us 
read something. Have you a book ? ” 

I had with me the second volume of the Voyages of Spal- 
lanzani. I opened it at random, and I drew nearer to her; 
she leaned her shoulder against mine, and we began to read 
to ourselves. Before turning a page she always had to wait 
for me. My mind acted less quickly than hers. 

“ Have you finished ? ” she would ask when I had scarcely 
begun. 

Our heads touched each other, and our hair ; we felt each 
other’s breath little by little, and finally our lips met. 

When we turned back to our reading the sky was full of stars. 

“ 0 Mamma, Mamma,” cried she, as we reached home, “ if 
you only knew how we have run ! ” 

I was silent. 

“ You say nothing,” said my mother. “ You look sad.” 
But my heart was a paradise. 

That was an evening I shall remember all my life. 

All my life ! 


298 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 

Some hour has just struck, but I know not which one; I 
can scarcely hear the striking of the clock. I feel as though 
the noise of an organ were in my ears ; but these are my 
last thoughts which make such a hum. 

At this supreme moment, when I am lost in these remem- 
brances, I recall my crime with horror ; and I want to repent 
still more. I felt greater remorse before I was condemned; 
since then it seems as though there was no time for anything 
but thoughts of death. But I should like to repent. 

When I consider for a moment what my life has been, 
when I think of the axe which is about to end it all, I shiver 
as though it were a new thing to me. My beautiful child- 
hood ! My happy youth ! A golden cloth, the end of which 
is bloody. Between then and now, runs a river of blood ; 
another’s blood and mine. 

If some day my story should be known, no one, after read- 
ing of so many years of innocent happiness, will wish to 
think of this dreadful year, which began by a crime, and 
ended in an execution ; it will appear odd«and out of place. 

And yet, oh, wretched laws, and wretched men, I was not 
wicked ! 

Oh ! to have to die in a few hours, and to think that a year 
ago, on a day like this, I was free and innocent, taking my 
autumn stroll, wandering under the trees, and walking among 
the leaves ! 


THE LAST DAT OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 299 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

Even at this very moment there are about me, in the 
homes around the Palais and La Greve, everywhere through- 
out Paris, men coming and going, talking and laughing ; men 
reading the papers, and thinking of their business ; merchants 
making bargains ; young girls planning their ball-gowns for 
this evening ; mothers playing with their children ! 


300 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

I remember one day when I was a child I went to see the 
great bell of Xotre-Dame. 

I was already dizzy from having climbed the dark, winding 
staircase, and crossed the frail gallery which connects the two 
towers whence I saw Paris at my feet, when I entered the 
cage of stone and wood where the bell hangs, with its tongue 
which weighs an hundredweight. 

I advanced tremblingly across the poorly joined planks, 
looking over at the clock which is so famous among the chil- 
dren and the people of Paris, and realizing, not without some 
fright, that the slate box about it, with its sloping sides, was 
on a level with my feet. Every now and then I saw, as the 
crow flies, so to speak, the Place of Parvis, Notre-Dame, 
and the people who seemed like ants. 

All at once the great bell began to strike ; a deep vibration 
filled the air, making the heavy tower sway. The beams of 
the floor trembled. The sound almost threw me over. I 
swayed, and barely escaped falling down the sloping sides of 
the slate box. In terror I lay down on the beams, grasp- 
ing them tight with both hands, without speaking, without 
breathing, with that dreadful noise in my ears, and under my 
eyes that precipice, that Place far below me, where so many 
peaceful, enviable people were passing. 

Well, it seems as if I were still in that bell-tower. Every- 
thing is indistinct and blurred. Something like the noise of 
a bell shakes the cavities of my brain ; and around me I see 
the calm, tranquil life I have left, which other men are still 
living ; but I see it only from afar, and across the depths of 
an abyss. 


THE LAST HAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 301 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

The Hotel de Ville is an evil-looking building. It is on 
a footing with La Greve, with its narrow, pointed roof, its 
strange belfry, its great white dial, its rows of small columns, 
its thousand windows, its worn staircases, its two arches on 
the right and left ; sombre and sad it stands, its face wasted 
away with years, and so dirty that even in the sunlight it is 
black. 

On execution days it emits gendarmes from all its doors, 
and it watches the condemned man with all its windows. 

In the evening, its dial, which marked the fatal hour, still 
shines out upon its dark facade. 


302 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

It is a quarter-past one. 

This is how I feel. 

I have a violent pain in my head, my back is cold, my fore- 
head burns. Every time I rise or lean over, it seems as 
though there were a liquid in my brain which makes it knock 
against the sides of my head. 

I tremble convulsively, and now and then the pen falls 
from my hand as though by a galvanic action. 

My eyes smart as though I were in the midst of smoke. 

My elbows ache. 

But only two hours and forty-five minutes are left before I 
shall be well again. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 303 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

They say that it is nothing, that one does not suffer, that 
it is an easy, simple death. 

But what is this agony for six weeks, and this rattle for 
twelve whole hours ? What is the anguish of this irreparable 
day which is passing so slowly and yet so quickly ? What is 
this ladder of torture leading to the scaffold ? Is all this 
“ nothing ” ? 

Apparently this is not suffering. 

Is it not the same sensation when the blood wastes away 
drop by drop as when the mind exhausts itself thought by 
thought ? 

Then, are they sure that we do not suffer ? Who has told 
them so ? Has it ever happened that a bloody head has raised 
up on the edge of the scaffold, and cried out to the people, 
“ That did not hurt ! ” 

Has any one who was killed in this way returned to thank 
them, and say, “ That is a good invention ; do not give it up. 
The machine is fine.” 

Did Robespierre ? Did Louis XVI. ? 

No ! But it is nothing ! they say. In less than a minute, 
in less than a second, it is over. But have they ever put 
themselves, even in thought, in the place of the one who is 
there, when the heavy axe falls, tearing the flesh, breaking 
the nerves, cutting the vertebrae — ah ! only half a second ! 
The pain is over — oh, horrors ! 


304 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XL. 

It is strange that I am constantly thinking of the king. 
In vain have I tried not to, in vain have I shaken my head ; 
there is a voice in my ear which says constantly, — 

“ In this same city, at this very hour, and not far from here, 
there is, in another palace, a man who also has guards at every 
door ; a man like you, individual among the people, with this 
difference, — that he is as high as you are low. His whole 
life, minute by minute, is but glory, grandeur, delight, intoxica- 
tion. Everything about him is love, respect, veneration. The 
loudest voices become low when he is addressed, and the 
proudest brows humble. Beneath his eyes all is silk and 
gold. At this very moment he is holding a council of min- 
isters where every one is of his opinion; or he is thinking 
of to-morrow’s hunt, of this evening’s ball, sure that the fete 
will come, and leaving to others to plan his pleasures. Well ! 
this man is flesh and blood like you ! And in order, at this 
very instant, for the horrible scaffold to crumble, and all be 
restored to you, — life, liberty, fortune, family, he need only 
write with this pen the seven letters of his name, at the bot- 
tom of a slip of paper ; or it needs but his coach to meet your 
wagon. And he is good, and would ask for nothing better, 
perhaps ; and yet none of this happens ! ” 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN 305 


CHAPTER XLI. 

Very well, then ! Let us be brave with death; let us take 
hold of this horrible idea with our two hands, and look at it 
full in the face. Let us ask it what it is ; let us know what 
it demands of us ; let us turn it over on every side, and spell 
out the enigma ; let us look at the tomb in advance. 

It seems to me that as soon as my eyes shall have closed, 
I shall see a great illumination, and abysses of light where my 
spirit shall roll forever. It seems to me that the sky will be 
lighted by itself, that the stars will be dark spots there, and 
that, instead of being as -they are now to our living eyes, 
spangles of gold on black velvet, they will seem black points 
on a gold cloth. 

Or, poor wretch that I am, it will perhaps be a hideous and 
deep whirlpool, the sides of which are lined with shadows, 
and into which I shall fall forever, seeing other forms moving 
about in the darkness. 

Or, waking after the blow, I shall perhaps find myself on a 
flat, damp surface, crawling through the darkness, and turning 
over and over like a rolling head. It seems to me that there 
will be a great wind which will drive me on, and that I shall 
be hurled here and there by other rolling heads. At inter- 
vals there will be seas and streams of a dry and unknown 
liquid ; everything will be black. When my eyes in their 
rotation shall turn upwards, they will see only a sky of black- 
ness, the thickness of which will weigh down upon them, and 
far away at the end will rise great arches of smoke, blacker 
than the shadows. They will also see, flying in the night, 
small crimson sparks, which, on coming near, will become 
birds of fire. And it will be like this through all eternity. 

It may be also that at certain times the dead of La Gr&ve 


306 TEE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


will gather together in the black nights of winter on the Place 
which belongs to them. It will be a pale and bloody crowd, 
and I shall not be wanting. There will be no moon, and they 
will speak in low tones. The Hotel de Ville will be there, 
with its worm-eaten facade, its fallen roof, and its dial which 
has been pitiless alike to all. There will be on the Place a 
guillotine from hell, and the Devil will execute a hangman ; 
this will be at four o’clock in the morning. Then it will be 
our turn to gather around in crowds. 

It is probable that it will be like this. But if these dead 
return, under what form will they come ? What part of 
their incomplete and mutilated body will they keep ? Which 
will they choose ? Will the head or the body be the ghost ? 

Alas ! what does death do with our soul ? What nature 
does it give it ? What does it take, and what does it leave 
with it ? Where does it put it ? Will it sometimes lend it 
eyes of flesh with which to look down upon the earth and 
weep ? 

Ah ! for a priest ! A priest who knows all this ! I want a 
priest, and a crucifix to kiss ! 

My God ! it is always the same ! 


THE LAST DAT OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 307 


CHAPTER XLII. 

I begged them to let me sleep, and I threw myself on the 
bed. 

I had a clot of blood in my head, which made me sleep. It 
is my last sleep of this kind. 

I had a dream. 

I dreamed that it was night. It seemed that I was in my 
office with two or three of my friends, whom I do not re- 
member. 

My wife was in the adjoining bedroom, asleep with her 
child. 

We were talking in a low voice, and what we said seemed 
to frighten us. 

Suddenly I heard a noise somewhere in the other rooms of 
the house. A faint, strange, indistinct noise. 

My friends heard it too. We listened ; it sounded like a 
lock opening stealthily, like the noise coming from the sawing 
of a bolt. 

There was something in the air which froze us. We were 
afraid. We thought perhaps robbers had entered my house 
at this late hour of the night. 

We decided to go and see. I rose and took the candle. 
My friends followed, one after the other. 

We crossed the adjoining bedroom. My wife was sleeping 
with her child. 

We reached the drawing-room. There was nothing there. 
The portraits hung motionless in their gold frames against 
the crimson wall. It seemed to me that the door from the 
drawing-room into the dining-room was not in its usual place. 

We entered the dining-room, and walked around it. I went 
first. The door from the stairway was tightly closed, as well 


308 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


as were the windows. Near the stove I saw that the linen- 
closet was open, and that the door of this closet was drawn 
out, as though to hide the wall behind it. 

This surprised me. We thought that some one was behind 
the door. 

I raised my hand to close it, but could not. Startled, I 
pulled harder, when suddenly it yielded, and we saw a little 
old woman, her hands hanging down and her eyes closed, 
standing motionless, as though caught in the corner of the 
wall. 

There was something hideous about it all, and my hair 
stands on end when I think of it. 

“What are you doing there ? ” I asked the old woman. 

No answer. 

“ Who are you ? ” I asked again. 

She neither spoke nor moved, but stood with closed eyes. 

My friends said, — 

“Probably she is in league with those who have entered 
with evil intentions ; they escaped when they heard us com- 
ing. She could not, and hid here.” 

I questioned her again ; but she remained speechless, 
motionless, sightless. 

One of us gave her a push. She fell forward. 

She fell like a block of wood, like a dead thing. 

We pushed her with our feet, then two of us raised her, 
and stood her up against the wall again. Still she gave no 
sign of life. We shouted in her ear, but she was as dumb as 
though she were deaf. 

We were losing patience, and there was anger in our terror. 
One of the men said to me, — 

“Put the candle under her chin.” I did so. She half- 
opened one eye, — . an empty socket, dull, frightful-looking, 
which could not see. 

I removed the lighted wick, saying, — 

“Ah! at last! Now answer, you old sorcerer! Who are 
you ? ” 


THE LAST DAT OF A CONDEMNED MAN . 309 


The eye closed, unresponsive like herself. 

“Well, this is too much!” cried the others. “The candle 
again ! The candle ! We’ll make her speak ! ” 

Again I placed the light under the old woman’s chin. 

She opened both eyes slowly, looked first at one, then at 
another of us, and suddenly leaning forward, she blew out 
the candle with an icy breath. At the same time I felt three 
sharp teeth clutch my hand in the darkness. 

I awoke, trembling, covered with a cold perspiration. 

The kind priest was sitting at the foot of my bed, reading 
prayers. 

“ Have I slept long ? ” I asked. 

“My son,” he said, “you have slept one hour. They have 
brought your child here. She is waiting for you in the next 
room. I did not wish them to waken you.” 

“ Oh ! ” I cried. “ My daughter ! Tell them to bring her to 
me, my little girl ! ” 


310 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER, XLIII. 

She is fresh and rosy, and has big eyes ; she is beautiful ! 

They had put on a pretty dress, which was very becoming 
to her. 

I took her, I raised her in my arms ; I seated her on my 
knee ; I kissed her hair. 

Why had her mother not come with her ? “ Her mother 

is ill, and her grandmother too.” That is well. 

She looked at me in a surprised sort of waj 7 . She let 
herself be petted and fondled, and covered with kisses ; but 
every now and then she threw an anxious look toward her 
nurse, who was crying in the corner. 

At length I spoke. 

“ Marie ! ” I cried, “my little Marie!” 

I caught her violently to my heart, choking with sobs. 
She gave a little cry. 

“ Oh, you hurt me, sir ! 99 

“ Sir ! ” The poor child had not seen me for a year. She 
had forgotten me, — my face, my words, my voice. Alas ! 
who, indeed, would recognize me with this beard, these 
clothes, and this pallor ? What ! already forgotten by the 
only one whom I wanted to remember me ! What ! no longer 
a father, even now ! To be condemned never again to hear 
the word in the language of children, which is so gentle that 
it cannot belong to that of men, — “ Papcu ! 99 

To hear those lips speak it once more, just once more, this 
is all I would have asked for the forty years of life that 
they are taking from me. 

“ Listen, Marie,” I said, taking her two little hands in 
mine, “ do you not know me any more ? 99 

She looked at me with her sweet eyes, and answered, — 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 311 


“ No ! ” 

“Look well,” I said again. “What! do you not know who 
lam?” 

“ Yes,” she said ; “ you are a gentleman.” 

Alas ! to love only one being in all the world, to love her 
with all one’s love, and to have her before you, seeing you and 
looking at you, speaking to you, and answering you, and not 
knowing you ! To want consolation only from her, the only 
one who does not know that you need it, and because you are 
about to die ! 

“ Marie,” I asked, “ have you a papa?” 

“ Yes, sir,” the child answered. 

“ Well, where is he ? ” 

She raised her great eyes in astonishment. 

“ Ah ! don’t you know ? He is dead.” 

Then she began to cry ; I almost let her fall from my knee. 

“ Dead ! ” I exclaimed ; “ Marie, do you know what it is to 
be dead ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” she replied. “ He is in the earth and in 
heaven too.” 

She went on of her own accord, — 

“ I pray to the good God for him night and morning, on 
mamma’s knee.” 

I kissed her forehead. 

“ Marie, say your prayer for me.” 

“I cannot say it now, sir. A prayer is not made in the 
daytime. Come this evening to my house, and I will say it 
for you.” 

This was enough. I interrupted her. 

“Marie, I am your papa.” 

“ Oh ! ” she exclaimed. 

I added, “ Do you want me for your papa ? ” 

The child turned away. 

“ No ; my papa was much more beautiful.” 

I covered her with tears and kisses. She tried to disen- 
gage herself from my arms, crying, — 


312 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


“ Your beard hurts me.” 

I sat her again on my knees, devouring her with my eyes, 
and then I questioned her. 

“ Marie, do you know how to read ? ” 

“ Yes,” she replied ; “ I can read very well. Mamma makes 
me read my letters.” 

“Well, let us hear you read a little,” I said, pointing to a 
paper, which she was crumpling in one of her baby hands. 

She nodded her pretty head. 

“ Well, I can read only fables.” 

“Never mind; try. Come, read.” 

She unfolded the paper, and began to spell out with her 
finger, — 

“ A, R, ar, R, E, T, ret, arret ” — 

I snatched it from her hands. It was my death-sentence 
that she was reading to me. Her nurse had bought the paper 
for a sou. It cost me more than that. 

Words cannot express what I felt. My violence frightened 
her. She was almost in tears. All at once she said to me, — 

“ Give me my paper ; it is to play with.” I handed her 
back to her nurse. 

“Take her away,” I cried. 

And I fell back in my chair, sad, lonely, despairing. They 
may come now ; I care for nothing more ; the last cord of my 
heart is broken. I am ready for whatever they want to do 
with me. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 313 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

The priest is good, and the jailer also. I think that they 
dropped a tear when I said that they might take away my 
child. 

They have done so. Now I must harden myself, and think 
with firmness upon the hangman, the wagon, the gendarmes, 
the crowd on the bridge, on the wharf, at the windows, and 
that which is waiting expressly for me on that gloomy Place 
de Greve, which might well be paved with the heads it has 
seen fall. 

I believe that I still have an hour in which to grow accus- 
tomed to all this. 


314 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XLY. 

All the populace will laugh, and will clap their hands, 
and shout. And among all these men who are free and un- 
known to the jailers, who run joyfully to an execution, in this 
crowd of heads which will cover the Place, there will be more 
than one which sooner or later will follow mine into the crim- 
son basket. More than one who comes there for me will some 
day come for himself. 

Eor these fatal beings there is, on a certain spot of La 
Greve, a fatal place, a centre of attraction, a trap. They turn 
around until they finally reach it. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 315 


t 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

My little Marie ! They carried her away to play. She 
watched the crowd from the cab-window, but thought no 
more of the gentleman. 

Perhaps I still have time to write a few pages for her, that 
some day she may read them, and fifteen years from now, 
may, perhaps, weep at to-day. 

Yes, she must know my story from me, and why the name 
I leave her is bloody. 


316 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


CHAPTER XL VII. 

MY STORY. 

Editor’s Note. — The pages attached to this cannot be found. Per- 
haps, as those which follow would indicate, the condemned man did 
not have the time to write them. It was late when the thought oc- 
curred to him. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 817 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

A ROOM IN THE HOTEL DE VILLE. 

The Hotel de Ville ! So I am here. The wretched journey 
is over. The Place is not far away ; and under the window 
the horrible crowd is gathering, the crowd which longs and 
waits and laughs. 

I have hardened myself in vain, I have trembled in vain; 
it is always the same ; my heart still fails me. When, above 
the heads, I saw those two great crimson arms, with the 
black triangle at one end, standing between the two lanterns 
on the quay, my heart failed me. I asked to be allowed to 
make a final declaration. They brought me here, and they 
have gone for a public prosecutor. I am now waiting for him. 
It is so much time gained. 

Here he is. 

Three o’clock struck, and they came to tell me that it was 
time. I trembled, as though I had been thinking of anything 
else for five whole hours, for six weeks, six months. It af- 
fected me as though it were something unexpected. 

They made me cross corridors and descend stairways. 
They brought me between two jailers to a gloomy, narrow, 
arched room on the ground-floor, that would be almost dark 
on a rainy, foggy day. A chair stood in the centre. They 
told me to be seated. I obeyed. 

Hear the door and along the walls several men were stand- 
ing, besides the priest and the gendarmes, and there were 
three other men also. 

The first, the largest and oldest, was fat, with a red face. 
He wore a cloak and a three-cornered hat. It was he, the hang- 
man, the valet of the guillotine. . The other two were his valets. 


318 THE LAST HAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


Scarcely was I seated, before the other two came up behind 
me like cats ; then all at once I felt a cold steel run through 
my hair, and scissors touching my ears. 

My hair was cut off, and its locks fell on my shoulders. 
The man with the three-cornered hat touched them gently 
with his rough hand. 

Around me they were all talking in low tones. 

Outside there was a great noise, like 'a mighty roaring. At 
first I thought it was the river ; but from the laughter which 
burst out, I knew it was the people. 

A young man near the window was writing in a copybook, 
and asked one of the jailers what they called that which they 
were doing. 

“ The toilet of the condemned man/’ the other replied. 

I knew that it would all be described in to-morrow’s paper. 

Then one of the valets removed my jacket, and the other 
took my two hands, which were hanging down, and tied them 
behind me with a rope, which they knotted around my wrists. 
At the same time the other took off my cravat. My cambric 
shirt, the only article which remained of my former life, 
made him hesitate a moment ; then he began to cut away the 
collar. 

At this dread precaution, at the touch of the steel on my 
neck, my elbows shook, and I gave a stifled groan. The hand 
of the executioner trembled. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ pardon me ! Did I hurt you ? ” 

These hangmen are very gentle. 

The shouts of the people outside grew louder. 

The fat man Avith the pimpled face handed me a handker- 
chief to smell of which was saturated with vinegar. 

“ Thanks, no,” I said, in as strong a voice as I could com- 
mand ; “ I do not need it ; I am very well.” 

Then one of the men knelt down, and bound my feet by 
means of a fine, narrow rope, which allowed me to take only 
short steps. The rope was attached to that which bound my 
hands. 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 319 


The fat man threw my jacket over my back, and tied the 
sleeves under my chin. All that was to be done there was 
finished. 

The priest approached with his crucifix. 

“ Come, my son,” said he. 

The valets took hold of my arms. I rose and walked; but 
my steps were weak and trembling, as though each leg had 
two knees. 

The outside door was now flung open. The furious shout- 
ing, the cold air, and the white light fell on me as I stood in 
the darkness. At the farther end of the dull prison I saw all 
at once, through the rain, the thousand howling heads of the 
populace, crowding pellmell upon the wide steps of the Pa- 
lais ; on the right, on a level with the threshold, was a line 
of horses belonging to the gendarmes, of which only the front 
feet and the breasts could be seen from the lower door ; in 
front, a company of soldiers was drawn up in line of battle ; 
on the left, I saw the rear of a wagon, against which a steep 
ladder was leaning. It was a hideous picture, well-framed in 
the door of a prison. 

It was for that awful moment that I had been gathering all 
my strength. I took three steps, and stood on the threshold 
of the prison. 

“ There he is ! There he is ! ” cried the people. “ He is 
coming out at last ! ” 

And those nearest to me began to clap their hands. If 
they loved the king very much it would be less of a holiday. 

It was an ordinary wagon, with a worn-out horse ; and the 
driver wore a blue smock-frock, with red figures on it like 
those of the gardeners in the suburbs of Bicetre. 

The fat man with the three-cornered hat was the first to 
mount. 

“ Good-morning, Monsieur Sanson ! ” cried the children on 
the railings. 

A valet followed him. 

“ Hurrah, Mardi ! ” cried the children again. 


320 THE LAST HAY OF A CON HEMN EH MAN. 


Both sat down on the front bench. 

It was my turn next. I stepped up with a firm tread. 

“ He walks well ! ” said a woman by the side of the gen- 
darmes. 

This cruel praise gave me courage. The priest took a seat 
opposite me. They had put me on the rear seat, with my 
back to the horse. I shuddered at this last attention. 

After all they have some feeling in them. 

I looked around me. Gendarmes before, gendarmes behind ; 
then the people, the people, the people ; a sea of heads on the 
Place. 

A picket of mounted gendarmes awaited us at the gate of 
the Palais. 

The officer gave the order. The wagon and its procession 
began to move, as though pushed forward by a howl from the 
people. 

We passed through the entrance ; and as the wagon turned 
toward the Pont au Change, the Place burst out into a cry 
which echoed from the pavement to the roofs, and the bridges 
and the quays answered it with the noise of an earthquake. 

At this point the picket joined our escort. 

“ Hats off ! Hats off ! ” cried a thousand voices together, 
“ as for the king ! ” 

I gave a frightful laugh, and exclaimed to the priest, — 
“ They, their hats ; I, my head.” 

The horses walked. 

The quay was sweet with the odor of plants ; it was flower- 
market day, but the women had deserted their posies for me. 

Opposite, in front of the square tower which rises at the 
corner of the Palais, were wine-shops, the doorways of which 
were filled with spectators, especially women, who were re- 
joicing over their fine places. The day ought to be a good 
one for the tavern-keepers. 

They were renting tables, chairs, scaffolds, wagons. Every- 
thing was crowded with spectators. Merchants of human 
blood were crying out with all their might, — 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 321 


“ Who wants a place ? ” 

I was filled with rage against all these people, and I longed 
to shout out, — 

“ Who wants mine ? ” 

The wagon moved on. At every step the crowd surged 
up after it, and it was with fright that I saw more crowds 
gathering in the distance at other points of my journey. 

As we crossed the Pont au Change, I chanced to look back 
on my right. My eyes fell on the other quay, above the 
houses, and on a solitary black tower, covered with carved 
images, on the top of which I saw two stone monsters sitting 
sidewise. I do not know why I asked the priest the name of 
the tower, but I did. 

“ St. Jacques-la-Bouclierie,” the hangman answered. 

I cannot explain how it was ; but nothing escaped me in 
the mist, in spite of the fine white rain which glistened upon 
everything like the network of a spider’s web. Every detail 
suggested some horror to me. Words fail me to describe my 
feelings. 

Toward the middle of the wide Pont au Change the crowd 
grew so dense that we could scarcely pass, and I was seized 
with a violent terror. I thought, final vanity ! that I should 
faint. Then I strove to become deaf and blind and dead to 
everything except the priest, whose words I could scarcely 
hear, owing to the shouts of the people. 

I took the crucifix and kissed it. 

“ Pity me, 0 my God ! ” I cried ; and I tried to lose myself 
in this thought. 

But every jolt of the hard wagon shook me. Then all at 
once I became violently cold. The rain had soaked my 
clothes, and dampened my shaved head. 

“ You are shaking with the cold, my son,” said the priest. 

“Yes,” I replied. 

Alas ! alas ! it was not only from the cold. 

At a turn in the bridge, the women expressed pity at my 
youth. 


322 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 


When we reached the fatal quay, I was beginning to see 
and hear nothing. The voices, the heads at the windows, at 
the doors, at the shop-railings, on the arms of the lanterns ; 
the open-eyed and cruel spectators, the people who knew me, 
and not one of whom I knew ; the paved street lined with 
human faces — I was unconscious of them all ; I was dazed 
and blind. It is a dreadful thing to have the weight of so 
many eyes bearing down upon one. 

I swayed on my bench, paying no more attention even to 
the priest or the crucifix. 

In the tumult about me, I no longer could distinguish the 
cries of pity from those of joy, the jeers from the sympathy, 
the voices from the noise ; it was all a roar in my head like an 
echo striking on brass. 

I mechanically spelled out the signs on the shops. 

Once a strange curiosity made me turn my head to see what 
was in front of us. It was a last effort of my mind, but the 
body refused to obey. My neck was paralyzed as though 
already dead. 

I saw on my left, beyond the river, one of the towers of 
Notre-Dame, which seen from that point hides the other. It 
was the one on which floated the flag. There were crowds of 
people there, and they must have had a good view. 

The wagon went on and on, the shops passed by, one sign 
followed another, written, painted, and gilded, and the people 
shouted and stamped in the mud, and I let myself be carried 
on as are those in sleep by their dreams. 

Suddenly the line of shops ended in a Place ; the shouts of 
the populace became louder, shriller, more joyful than ever ; 
the wagon stopped, and I almost fell forward on the floor. The 
priest caught me. “ Courage ! ” he whispered. A ladder was 
placed at the rear of the wagon ; he gave me his arm ; I de- 
scended, took one step, was about to take a second, when — 
strength failed me. Between the two lanterns on the quay, 
I had seen a terrible object. 

Oh, it was the real thing ! 


THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN. 823 


I stood still, swaying back and forth. 

“ I have a last declaration to make ! ” I cried in a weak 
voice, and they brought me here. 

I asked to be allowed to write my last wishes. They un- 
bound my hands ; but the rope is here, waiting, and the rest is 
below. 


324 THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED MAN . 


CHAPTEK XLIX. 

A judge, a commissary, a magistrate of some kind, has just 
come in. I implored him with clasped hands to obtain my 
pardon, dragging myself across the floor on my knees. He 
asked me with a fatal smile if that was all I had to say to him. 

“ My pardon ! my pardon ! ” I cried, “ or, in mercy, five 
minutes longer ! 

“ Who knows ? Perhaps it will come ! It is so horrible to 
die thus at my age ! One often hears of a pardon coming at 
the last moment. And whose pardon would it be, sir, except 
mine ? ” 

The accursed hangman! He approached the judge to tell 
him that the execution had been arranged for a certain time, 
that the moment was almost at hand, that he was held respon- 
sible ; and that, besides this, it was raining, and that the 
machine ran the risk of becoming rusty. 

“ Oh, in mercy ! Wait one moment for my pardon, or I 
will defend myself ; I’ll bite ! ” 

The judge and the hangman went away. I am alone. 
Alone with two gerdarmes. 

Oh ! the horrible crowd with their hyena-like yells ! — Who 
knows if I may not escape, if I may not yet be saved. If my 
pardon — it is not possible for them not to pardon me ! 

Ah ! the fiends ! I seem to hear them coming up the 
stairs — 

FOUR O’CLOCK. 


1881. 

The original manuscript of the “ Last Day of a Condemned Man” 
bears these words on the margin of the first page: “ Tuesday, October, 
14, 1828,” and at the foot of the last page: “Night, December 25-26, 
1828, — three o’clock iii the morning.” 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


NOTE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The following letter, the original of which is in the office of the 
Revue de Paris ( Claude Gueux first appeared in the Revue de 
Paris'), reflects too much credit upon its author not to be reproduced 
here. In future, it will be appended to every reprint of Claude Gueux. 

Dunkirk, July 30, 1834. 

To the Editor of the Revue de Paris : — 

Claude Gueux, by Victor Hugo, published in your number of the 6th 
inst., teaches a great lesson; help me, I beg you, to make it of use. Will 
you be kind enough to have printed, at my expense, as many copies as there 
are deputies in France, and to have one sent to each ? 

I have the honor to be, sir, 

Charles Carlier, Merchant. 


328 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


Some seven or eight years ago a poor workman, by the 
name of Claude Gueux, was living in Paris with his mistress 
and child. I will give the facts as they are, and let the 
reader gather the morals which they sow. The workman 
was capable, skilful, and intelligent ; poorly educated, it is 
true, but richly endowed by nature, and although not know- 
ing how to read, yet perfectly able to think. 

One winter, work was scarce. There was neither food nor 
fuel in their lodging. The man, the woman, and the child 
were cold and hungry. The man stole. I do not know 
what or from whom. What I do know is, that the theft 
resulted in three days’ food and fuel for the woman and 
child, and five years’ imprisonment for the man. 

He was sent to serve his term in the main prison of Clair- 
vaux. Clairvaux was an abbey, which had been turned into 
a bastile, a cell turned into a prison, an altar changed to a 
pillory. When we speak of progress, this is what some 
people understand by it, and this is how they carry it out. 
This is what they consider the term to mean. 

But to continue. 

When he reached the prison, they put him into a dungeon 
for the night and into a workshop for the day. It is not the 
workshop to which I object, however. 

Claude Gueux, an honest workman till now, but henceforth 
to be known as a thief, was dignified and serious in ap- 
pearance. He had a high forehead, which, although he was 
still young, was somewhat wrinkled, a few gray locks in his 

329 


330 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


thick black hair, a mild, and, at the same time, a powerful 
glance, beneath well-shaped eyebrows, wide nostrils, a pro- 
jecting chin, and scornful lips. It was a beautiful head. 
You shall see what society did with it. 

He seldom spoke, and used few gestures ; but in his bearing 
there was something imperious which compelled obedience. 
His manner was thoughtful, but this was the result of his nat- 
ural seriousness rather than any acquired patience. And yet 
he had suffered much. 

In the warehouse where Claude Gueux was set to work, 
there was a superintendent, a regular officer of the prisons, 
who was both overseer of the workshop and director of the 
jail ; who at the same time gave orders to the workmen and 
threatened the prisoners ; who put the tools into their hands 
and irons upon their feet. He was a model of his kind, a man 
of few words, tyrannical and obstinate, and always keeping 
a short rein on his authority ; and yet, on the other hand, a 
good companion at times, a kind fellow, even jovial and ready 
for a jest ; hard rather than firm ; arguing with no one, not 
even with himself ; a good father and kind husband, no doubt, 
but this is a duty and not a virtue ; in a word, he was bad, 
but not wicked. He was one of those men who have nothing 
vibrating or elastic in their nature ; who are composed of inert 
molecules, which answer to the touch of no idea, to the contact 
of no sentiment ; whose anger is speechless, whose hatred is 
morose, whose feeling is unenthusiastic ; who catch fire with- 
out burning, whose heating qualities are absent, who are like 
logs of wood. They burn at one end, but are cold at the 
other. The principal or diagonal line, so to speak, of this 
man’s character was obstinacy. He was proud of this fact, 
and compared himself to Napoleon ; but this was only an 
optical illusion. Many people are the dupes of such an 
illusion; and from a distance they look upon obstinacy as 
strength of will, and upon a candle as a star. So, when 
this man had once adjusted his so-called will upon some 
absurd idea, he went with head erect through every obstacle, 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


331 


to the very end. Obstinacy without intelligence is foolish- 
ness soldered to the end of stupidity, and merely serves to 
make it longer. More than this. Generally, when a pri- 
vate or public catastrophe has fallen upon us, if we examine 
the rubbish on the ground, we will almost always find that it 
was blindly built by some obstinate and mediocre man, who 
had confidence in himself and who admired himself. These 
little obstinate fatalities often occur, and they are called acts 
of Providence. 

Such was the superintendent of the workshops of the central 
prison of Clairvaux. That is what the steel was made of, 
with which society struck the prisoners daily in order to make 
sparks. 

The sparks from such flint on such stones often cause in- • 
cendiarism. 

As we have said, as soon as Claude Gueux reached Clair- 
vaux, he was given a number in the shop, and riveted to a 
duty. The superintendent made his acquaintance, saw that 
he was a good workman, and treated him well. One day he 
happened to be in a good humor, and seeing that Claude 
Gueux was sad, for the man was constantly thinking of the 
woman he called his wife , he told him, as a matter, of gossip, 
and to pass away the time, as well as to console him, that 
the unhappy woman had gone to the bad. Claude coldly 
asked what had been done with the child, but no one knew. 

After a few months Claude grew accustomed to the atmos- 
phere of the prison, and appeared no longer to be thinking of 
anything. He showed a certain severe calmness, well suited 
to his character. 

About this same time he had acquired a singular authority 
over his companions. As though by a tacit agreement, with- 
out any one’s (not even himself) knowing why, all the men 
consulted him, listened to him, admired him, and imitated 
him, which is the highest flattery. It was no ordinary glory 
to be obeyed by all these rebellious temperaments. The 
power came to him without any effort on his part. It lay in 


332 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


the glance of his eye. Man’s eye is a window through which 
one sees the thoughts which come and go in his head. 

Put a man of ideas among men who have none, and after a 
certain time, by the irresistible law of attraction, all the empty 
heads will gravitate, humbly and with adoration, around the 
bright head. There are men who are cast-iron, and men who 
are loving. Claude was loving. 

So in less than three months he had become the soul, the 
law, and the order of the shop. Every hand turned on his 
dial. Sometimes he wondered himself if he were king or 
captive. He was a sort of pope, imprisoned with his cardi- 
nals. 

And by a very natural reaction, which takes place every- 
where, because he was beloved by the prisoners, he was hated 
by the jailers. It is always so. Popularity is never without 
disfavor. The love of the slaves is always offset by the hatred 
of the masters. 

Claude Gueux was a hearty eater. This was a peculiarity 
of his temperament. His stomach was such that the food of 
two ordinary men was scarcely enough for him. Monsieur de 
Cotadilla had a similar appetite, and used to laugh about it ; 
but what is a subject for mirth in a duke, a Spanish noble, 
who has five hundred thousand sheep, is a troublesome thing 
for a workman, and a misfortune for a prisoner. 

Claude Gueux, free in his granary, worked all day, won his 
four pounds of bread, and ate it. Claude Gueux, in prison, 
worked all day, and invariably received for his trouble one 
pound and a half of bread and four ounces of meat. The 
ration is inexorable ; so Claude was always hungry in Clair- 
vaux prison. 

He was hungry, but that was all. He never spoke of it. 
That was part of his nature. 

One day Claude had finished his meagre pittance, and had 
returned to work, thinking so to forget his hunger. The 
other prisoners were eating joyfully. After a moment, a 
young man, pale, thin, and sickly-looking, approached him. 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


333 


He held in his hand his ration, which he had not touched, 
and a knife. He stood near Claude, as though he wanted 
to speak, but did not dare. This man, with his bread and 
meat, annoyed Claude. 

“ What do you want ? ” at length he asked roughly. 

“ I want you to do me a favor,” answered the young man 
timidly. 

“ What is it ? ” asked Claude. 

u I want you to help me eat this. There is too much 
for me.” 

Tears came into Claude’s proud eyes. He took the knife, 
divided the young man’s ration in two equal parts, took one, 
and began to eat. 

“ Thank you,” said the young man. “ If you will, we will 
share in this way every day.” 

“ What is your name ? ” asked Claude Gueux. 

“ Albin.” 

“ Why are you here ? ” again asked Claude. 

“ Because I stole.” 

“ So did I,” said Claude. 

Every day they shared their ration. Claude Gueux was 
thirty-six years old ; but there were times when he seemed 
fifty, he was so severe-looking. Albin was twenty, but 
seemed seventeen, he looked so innocent. A close friendship 
sprang up between the two men, a friendship like that of 
father and son, rather than that of brother and brother. Al- 
bin was still almost a child ; Claude was already almost an 
old man. 

They worked in the same shop, they slept under the same 
key-stone, they walked in the same yard, they ate the same 
food. Each was the whole world to the other. Apparently 
they were happy. 

We have already spoken of the superintendent. This man 
was hated by the prisoners, and was often obliged, in order to 
enforce obedience, to have recourse to Claude Gueux, whom 
they loved. More than once, when he wished to prevent a 


334 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


strike or a quarrel, the unofficial authority of Claude Gueux 
had helped the superintendent. To quiet the prisoners, ten 
words from Claude were worth ten gendarmes. Claude had 
many times rendered such help to the superintendent. So the 
latter hated him cordially. He was jealous of the robber. 
He felt deep in his heart a secret, envious, implacable hatred 
against Claude, the hatred of the rightful sovereign against 
the acting sovereign, temporal power against spiritual. 

Such hatred is the worst kind. 

Claude loved Albin dearly, and gave no thought to the 
superintendent. 

One morning, as the jailers were bringing the prisoners, 
two by two, from the dormitory to the workshop, one of them 
called to Albin, who was by the side of Claude, and told him 
that the superintendent wanted to see him. 

“ What do they want with you ? ” asked Claude. 

“ I do not know,” replied Albin. 

The jailer led him away. 

The morning passed, but Albin did not return to the shop. 
When the hour for mess arrived, Claude thought he would 
find him in the yard. They returned to the shop, but Albin 
was not there. So the day passed. When evening came, 
and the prisoners were led back to the dormitory, Claude 
looked about for Albin, but could not see him. He must 
have been suffering greatly; for he spoke to a jailer, an un- 
heard-of thing for Claude to do. 

“ Is Albin ill ? ” he asked. 

“ Ho,” answered the jailer. 

“ What has happened, then, that he has not come back to- 
day ? ” asked Claude. 

“ Oh,” said the jailer carelessly, “ they have changed his 
workroom.” 

Those who gave these facts afterwards say that at this 
reply from the jailer, Claude’s hand, which held a lighted 
candle, trembled slightly. But he replied calmly, — 

“ Who gave that order ? ” 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


385 


“M. D.,” returned the jailer. 

The superintendent was called M. D. 

The following day passed as did the preceding one, without 
Albin. 

In the evening, when the work was over, the superintendent, 
M. D., made his usual round in the shop. As soon as Claude 
saw him, he removed his coarse linen cap, buttoned his gray 
jacket, the sad-looking livery of Clairvaux (for it is an idea 
in prison that a jacket respectfully buttoned makes a favor- 
able impression on the officers), and stood with cap in hand, 
beside his bench, awaiting the superintendent. AVhen the 
latter passed, Claude called out, — 

“ Monsieur ? ” 

The superintendent stopped, and half turned. 

“ Monsieur,’’ said Claude, “ is it true that Albin’s room has 
been changed ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the superintendent. 

“ Monsieur,” continued Claude, “ I need Albin in order to 
live. You know I have not enough food from the prison 
ration, and Albin shares his with me.” 

“ That is his affair,” said the superintendent. 

“ Monsieur, is there no way of bringing back Albin into 
this room ? ” 

“That is impossible. The arrangement is made.” 

“ By whom ? ” 

“ By me.” 

“ Monsieur D.,” continued Claude, “ it is life or death with 
me ; and it depends on you.” 

“ I never take back a decision.” 

“ Monsieur, have I done anything to annoy you ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Then, why do you separate me from Albin ? ” asked Claude. 

“ Because,” replied the superintendent. 

After this explanation, he passed on. 

Claude lowered his head without reply. Poor caged lion 
that he was, whose dog they had removed ! 


336 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


We must admit, however, that the grief at this separation 
in no way changed the fierce voracity of the prisoner. Noth- 
ing apparently was any different with him. He never spoke 
to any of his comrades of Albin. He walked alone in 
the yard at the recreation hour, and he was hungry. This 
was all. 

But those who knew him well, noticed something sinister 
and sombre on his face, which grew deeper every day. In 
other respects he was gentler than ever. 

Several offered to share their ration with him, but he re- 
fused them, smiling. 

Every evening, since the explanation that the superintendent 
had given him, he did a thing which in so serious a man was 
foolish. When the superintendent made his usual round, and 
passed by Claude, the latter raised his eyes, and looking him 
full in the face, in a tone of suppressed agony and anger, 
a combination of pleading and threatening, he uttered these 
two words : “ And Albin ? ” The superintendent pretended 
not to hear, or shrugged his shoulders and passed on. 

The man did wrong to shrug his shoulders, for it was evi- 
dent to all the spectators that Claude Gueux was quietly 
determined to do something. The whole prison waited anx- 
iously for the result of the contest between stubbornness and 
resolution. 

It is known that Claude once said to the superintendent, — 

“ Listen to me, sir. Give me back my comrade. You 
would better, I tell you. Bemember that.” 

Again, one Sunday, as he sat in the yard, on a stone, his 
elbows on his knees, and his forehead in his hands, without 
having changed the position for some hours, the convict 
Eaillette came up, and laughingly cried out to him, — 

“ Why in the devil are you sitting like this, Claude ? ” 

And Claude slowly raised his serious face, and replied, — 

“ I am judging some one.” 

Finally, one evening, the 25th of October, 1831, as the 
superintendent made his rounds, Claude with his foot, broke 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


337 


the crystal of a watch which he had found that morning in the 
corridor. The superintendent asked what caused the noise. 

“ It is nothing/ 7 said Claude ; “ I did it. Monsieur, give 
me back my friend.” 

“ That is impossible/ 7 returned the master. 

“ But you must/ 7 said Claude in a low tone, and looking 
the superintendent full in the face, he added, — 

“ Consider well. To-day is the 25th of October. I will 
give you until the 4th of November. 77 

A jailer told M. D. that Claude had threatened him, and 
that it was a case for a strait-jacket. 

“ No, no strait-jackets/ 7 answered the superintendent, with 
a scornful smile ; “ we must be kind to these men ! 77 

The following day the convict Pernot stopped Claude, 
who was walking alone and pensive, while the other pris- 
oners were enjoying themselves at the farther end of the 
court in a square of sunshine. 

“ Well, Claude, what are you thinking about ? You look 
sad. 77 

"I am afraid replied Claude, “ that before long some 
misfortune will com,e to this kind M. D” 

There were nine whole days from October 25 to November 
4. Claude did not let one pass without seriously telling the 
superintendent of his feelings at being separated from Albin. 
The superintendent grew weary, and once sent him to the 
cell of correction for twenty-four hours, because his request 
sounded too much like a threat. But that was all that Claude 
received. 

The 4th of November arrived. Claude awoke with a 
calmer face than he had had since the day when the M. D.’s 
decision had separated the friends. When he rose, he put his 
hand into a sort of box made of white wood, which stood at 
the foot of his bed, and which contained his few clothes. 
He drew out a small pair of scissors. This, with an odd 
volume of Emile , was all that remained of the woman he had 
loved, of the mother of his child, of his once happy home. 


338 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


They were two very useless articles for Claude ; the scissors 
were of use only to a woman, and the book to one who could 
read. Claude could neither read nor sew. 

As he crossed the old desecrated, whitewashed cloister, 
which was used as a winter promenade, he went up to the 
convict Ferrari, who was attentively studying the thick bars 
of a grating. Claude held the scissors up to Ferrari, saying, — 

“ This evening I am going to cut those bars with these scis- 
sors.” 

Ferrari, incredulous, began to laugh, as did Claude. 

That morning Claude worked harder than ever, and faster 
and better. He seemed to attach a certain degree of impor- 
tance in the finishing of a straw hat for which a good fellow 
from Troyes, Monsieur Bressier, had paid him in advance. 

Just before noon he went down on some pretext or other 
to the furniture shop, which was on the ground-floor, under 
the room where he worked. Claude was loved there as every- 
where, but he rarely went there. 

“ See ! There is Claude ! ” the men cried, as he entered. 
All turned. It was a regular fete. Claude glanced quickly 
across the room. Hone of the jailers were present. 

“ Who has an axe to lend me ? ” he asked. 

“ What are you going to do with it ? ” they asked. 

“ I am going to kill the superintendent this evening,” he 
replied. 

Several axes were handed him to choose from. He took 
the smallest, which was very sharp, hid it in his trousers, and 
went away. There were twenty-seven prisoners in the room, 
but he had no need to bind them to secrecy. Ho one would tell. 

They did not even mention the affair among themselves. 

Every one waited to see what would happen. The situation 
was terrible, clear, and simple — no possible complication. 
Claude would not be betrayed or in any way hindered. 

An hour later, he went up to a young convict of sixteen, 
who was yawning in the corridor, and advised him to learn to 
read. Just then Faillette called to Claude, and asked him 



SOMETHING TO SAY.” 










CLAUDE GUEUX. 


389 


what in the devil he had hidden in his trousers. Claude 
replied, — 

“ It is an axe with which I am going to kill M. D. this 
evening.” Then, “ Does it show much ? ” 

“ A little,” replied Faillette. 

The rest of the day passed in the usual way. At seven 
o’clock the prisoners were shut up, each division in the shop 
which was assigned to it ; and the guards left the workshops, 
as was customary, to return only after the superintendent 
had made his rounds. 

So Claude, like all the rest, was locked in his shop with his 
fellow-workers. 

Then there occurred an extraordinary scene in that work- 
shop, a scene which lacks neither dignity nor terror, and the 
only one of its kind in history. 

There were in the room, according to the accounts since 
given by witnesses, eighty-two robbers, including Claude. 

As soon as they were alone, Claude jumped upon his bench, 
and announced that he had something to say. Silence fell 
upon the room. 

Claude raised his voice, and cried : — 

“ You all know that Albin was my friend. What they gave 
me here to eat was not enough for me. Even by buying bread 
with the little money I earn, I have not enough. Albin shared 
his ration with me ; I loved him first on this account, and 
afterwards because he loved me. The superintendent, M. D., 
separated us. It was nothing to him, our being together ; 
but he is a wicked man, who likes to torment us. I asked him 
for Albin. You have all seen that he was not willing to 
return him. I gave him till the 4th of November to restore 
him, and he put me in the cell of correction for having said 
that to him. During all this time I have judged him, and I 
have condemned him to death ” [this is verbatim]. “ It is 
the 4th of November. In two hours he will make his round. 
I warn you that I am going to kill him. Have you anything 
to say to this ? ” 


840 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


Silence. 

Claude continued speaking with an eloquence which seemed 
inspired, but it was natural to him. He said that he realized 
that he was going to commit a crime, but that he did not 
think himself in the wrong. He called to witness the con- 
sciences of the eighty-one robbers who heard him : — 

That he was driven to extremes ; 

That the necessity of doing justice to one’s self was a 
blind alley, in which one sometimes was caught ; 

That he could not take the superintendent’s life without 
taking his own, but that he thought it was right to give his 
life for a just cause ; 

That he had duly reflected on the situation and on that 
alone for two months ; 

That he felt he was not led into his act by any feeling of 
resentment, but if such were thought to be the case, he begged 
that they would say so ; 

That he frankly told his reasons to the just men who were 
listening to him ; 

That he was going to kill M. D., but if any one had any ob- 
jection to offer, he was ready to hear it. 

One voice alone answered him, saying, that before killing 
the superintendent, Claude should try a last time to speak to 
him, and try and convince him. 

“ That is fair,” said Claude, “ and I will do so.” 

Eight o’clock struck from the great clock. The superin- 
tendent would come at nine. 

When this strange court of appeals had in a way approved 
the sentence which he pronounced, Claude’s calmness returned. 
He put on the table all his linen and clothing, the prisoner’s 
scanty wardrobe, and calling one by one upon the comrades 
he loved next best after Albin, he gave something to each. 
He kept only the little pair of scissors. 

Then he embraced them all. Some of them cried, but he 
smiled at this. 

There were times during that last hour when he talked 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


341 


with such calmness and even gayety that several of his com- 
rades hoped in their hearts, as they have since said, that he 
perhaps would give up his idea. Once he even amused him- 
self by extinguishing one of the few candles in the shop with 
his nostrils, for he had some bad habits of bringing up, which 
detracted from his natural dignity oftener than they should. 
At times nothing could prevent this ancient street gamin 
from smelling of the Paris gutters. 

He noticed a young prisoner, who was pale and trembling, 
watching him attentively, no doubt to see what was going to 
happen. 

“Come, courage, young man ! ” said Claude gently, “it will 
take only an instant.” 

When all his belongings had been divided, and all his 
“ good-byes ” said, he stopped some anxious talkers here and 
there who were whispering in the distant corners of the shop, 
and told them to return to work. They obeyed in silence. 

The shop in which all this occurred was oblong, a narrow 
parallelogram with windows on the two longest sides, and two 
doors at the opposite ends. The workmen were on each side 
near the windows, the benches at right angles to the wall, 
and the space between them making a sort of long aisle from 
one door to the other, across the entire room. Along this 
aisle the superintendent must walk to make his round of 
inspection ; he would enter at the south door, and go out by 
the north, after having looked at the workmen on the right 
and left. Usually he walked fast and without stopping. 

Claude took his place at his bench and applied himself to 
work, as Jacques Clement once did to prayer. 

Every one waited. The moment was drawing near. All at 
once they heard a clock striking. Claude said, — 

“ That is the quarter-hour.’’ 

Then he rose, crossed the room slowly, and leaned his elbow 
on the first bench on the left near the door. His face was 
perfectly calm and kind. 

Nine o’clock struck. The door opened, and the superin- 
tendent entered. 


342 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


They were as still in the shop as though they were statues. 

The superintendent, as usual, was alone. 

He came in with his customary good-natured, satisfied, 
and inexorable expression on his face ; and all unmindful of 
Claude, who was standing at the left of the door, his right 
hand hidden in his trousers, he passed quickly by the first 
benches, shaking his head, muttering a word, and throwing 
a glance here and there, never noticing that the eyes about 
him were fixed on one dread idea. 

“All at once he turned quickly, surprised to hear a step 
behind him. 

It was Claude, who had followed him for some instants in 
silence. 

“What are you doing here ? ” cried the superintendent; 
“ why are you not in your place ? ” A man was not a man 
there, but a dog, and as such he was treated. 

Claude answered respectfully, — 

“ I have something to say to you, monsieur.” 

“ What about ? ” 

“ About Albin.” 

“ Still that same subject,” exclaimed the superintendent. 

“ Yes ; always ! ” replied Claude. 

“ So ! ” continued the superintendent, resuming his walk. 
“ The twenty-four hours in the cell of correction were not 
enough for you ? ” 

Claude continued, still following him, — 

“ Monsieur, give me back my friend.” 

“ It is impossible.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Claude, in a voice that would have moved 
the devil himself, “I implore you to give me back Albin; 
you shall see how well I will work. It makes no difference 
to you, for you are free ; it is all the same to you, you do 
not know what a friend is ; but I have only my four prison 
walls. You can come and go as you please ; I have only 
Albin. Give him back to me. You know very well that 
Albin kept me alive. It will cost you only the trouble of 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


343 


saying ‘ yes/ What difference would it make to you if there 
were in the same room a man named Claude Gueux and 
another called Albin? For it means nothing more than that. 
Monsieur, my kind Monsieur IX, I implore you earnestly, in 
the name of Heaven ! ” 

Perhaps Claude never before had said as much at any one 
time to a jailer; and after this effort he waited, exhausted. 
The superintendent replied with an impatient gesture : — 

“ It is impossible. I have given the order. Talk to me no 
more about it. You weary me.” 

And he went on with hurried step. Claude followed, and 
both reached the exit; the eighty robbers watched and lis- 
tened, breathless. 

Claude gently touched the superintendent’s arm. 

“ At least, let me know why I am condemned to die. Tell 
me, why have you separated us ? ” 

“ I have already told you,” said the superintendent, “ that 
it is because.” 

And turning away, he raised his hand to the door-knob. 

At the superintendent’s reply, Claude had stepped back. 
The eighty robbers saw him draw the axe from his trousers, 
raise it, and before the superintendent had time to utter a 
word, three blows from the instrument (a frightful thing to 
describe), and all three on the same spot, laid open his skull. 
As he fell backwards, a fourth blow demolished his face ; then, 
as rage does not stop short, Claude Gueux, by a fifth blow, 
split open his right thigh. The superintendent was dead. 

Claude threw aside the axe, exclaiming, “ Now for the 
other! ” That was himself. They saw him pull from his 
jacket the small scissors which had belonged to “ his wife,” 
and without any one’s attempting to stop him, he thrust the 
blades into his breast. The points were short, and his heart 
was deep. He drove them in again and again, exclaiming 

more than twenty times, “D heart, I cannot find you ! ” 

and finally fell, fainting, and covered with blood, upon the 
body of the man he had killed. 


344 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


Which of the two was the victim of the other ? 

When Claude recovered consciousness, he was in a bed, 
covered with linen bandages, and tenderly cared for. About 
his cot were kind Sisters of Charity, and more than one ex- 
amining judge, who instructed him, and who kept asking him 
with great interest, “ How do you feel ? ” 

He had lost a great deal of blood, but the scissors with 
which he had had the pitiful idea of killing himself had done 
their work badly ; none of the wounds he had given himself 
were dangerous. The only fatal wounds were those he had 
given to M. D. 

The trial began. They asked him if he was the one who 
had killed the superintendent of the workshops of Clairvaux 
prison. He replied, “ Yes” They asked him why. He 
replied, “ Because .” 

Once his wounds just escaped resulting in blood-poisoning ; 
he fell into a high fever, which proved almost fatal. 

November, December, January, and February passed, and 
Claude was closely watched ; physicians and judges clustered 
about him ; the former cured his wounds, the latter built his 
scaffold. 

We will abridge the story. The 16th of March, 1832, ar- 
rived, and he was entirely cured, and well enough to appear 
before the Court of Appeals in Troyes. Everything that the 
city could furnish in the way of a crowd was there. 

Claude made a good appearance before the court. He had 
been carefully shaved, his head was bare, and he wore the 
sombre garb of the Clairvaux prison, the two shades of gray. 

The public prosecutor had filled the room with all the bay- 
onets in the town, “ in order,” he said to the audience, “ to 
enforce discipline among all the criminals who are to appear 
as witnesses in the prosecution.” 

When the time for the cross-examination arrived, a strange 
thing happened. None of the witnesses of the 4th of Novem- 
ber wanted to testify against Claude. The judge threatened 
to punish them, but in vain. Finally Claude told them to tell 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


345 


what they knew, and every tongue was loosed to give the 
details of what they had seen. 

Claude listened to all with close attention ; and when any of 
them, through forgetfulness or affection for him, omitted 
facts which might convict the prisoner, Claude volunteered 
them. 

Testimony after testimony, the series of facts which we 
have given, were laid before the court. 

At one time the women who were present began to cry. 
Finally the bailiff called in the prisoner Albin. It was his 
turn to testify. He came in sobbing, and swaying from side to 
side, and the gendarmes could not keep him from rushing into 
Claude’s arms. Claude held him close, and turning to the 
public prosecutor with a smile, said, “ Here is a criminal who 
shares his bread with those who are hungry.” Then he 
kissed Albin’s hand. 

When all the evidence was in, the public prosecutor rose, 
and said, “ Gentlemen of the jury, society would be shaken 
to its very foundations if action by the public prosecutor did 
not punish guilty men like this one who ” etc. 

After this memorable speech, Claude’s lawyer rose. The 
prosecution and the defence went through the usual evolutions 
which characterize this sort of hippodrome called a criminal 
trial. 

Claude thought that something still remained to be said, 
and rose in his turn. He spoke in such a way, that at least 
one intelligent person who was present at the trial came 
away perfectly amazed. 

It seemed as though the poor workman was much more of 
an orator than an assassin. He stood while he spoke, and 
uttered his words in a strong, well-modulated voice, with a 
clear, frank, straightforward glance, and using almost always 
the same gestures. He gave the facts as they were, neither 
more nor less, in a simple, dignified way, looking Article 296 
full in the face, and bowing his head beneath it. At times 
there was true eloquence in what he said ; and the crowd was 


346 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


touched, and repeated his words in a whisper to others in the 
audience. 

Meanwhile, Claude paused to take breath, and glanced 
proudly across at the people. 

At other times this man, who did not know how to read, 
was as gentle, as polished, and as refined in the language he 
used as any man of letters ; then again, he was modest, care- 
ful, attentive, going step by step over the troublesome part of 
the argument, and even showing kindness toward the judges. 

Once only did he let an expression of anger escape him. 
The public prosecutor had stated in the speech which we 
have given that Claude Gueux had murdered the superintend- 
ent of the workshops without a blow or any act of violence 
having been given on the part of the superintendent, conse- 
quently he had done it without ‘provocation. 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Claude, “ I was not provoked ? Oh, 
yes, that is so 5 I see what you mean. A drunken man strikes 
me with his fist, I kill him. I have been provoked, you 
pardon me, and I am sent to the galleys. But a man who is 
not drunk, and who has his senses, keeps me under restraint 
for four years, humiliates me for four years, pricks me with a 
pin in unexpected places every day, every hour, every minute, 
for four years ! I have a wife for whom I have stolen ; he 
tortures me about this woman. I have a child for whom I 
have stolen; he tortures me about the child. I have not 
enough to eat, a friend gives me some bread ; he takes away 
my friend and my bread. I ask him to give me back my 
friend, he puts me into a coll. I say ‘ you ’ to him, the spy, 
and he addresses me by ‘ thou.’ I tell him that I suffer, he 
tells me that I weary him. So what would you have me do ? 
I kill him. I am a murderer, I killed this man, but I was not 
provoked, and you cut off my head. Well, do so.” 

According to us, this was a sublime point, which all at 
once set a whole theory of moral provocation, that the law 
had forgotten, above the system of material provocation, on 
which leans the poorly proportioned ladder of extenuating 
circumstances. 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


347 


The summings-up finished, the judge made an impartial 
and brilliant charge, which resulted in this wise : A wicked 
life. A monster. Claude Gueux began by living with a 
woman to whom he was not married, then he stole, then he 
murdered. All of which was true. 

As he was about to direct the jury to retire, the judge 
asked the accused if he had anything to say as to the terms. 

“ Nothing very much,” replied Claude, “ except this. I 
am a robber and an assassin. I have stolen and killed. But 
why did I steal ? Why did I kill ? Place these questions 
by the side of the others, gentlemen of the jury.” 

After a quarter of an hour’s deliberation the twelve natives 
of Champagne, called “ gentlemen of the jury,” brought in 
their verdict, and Claude Gueux was condemned to death. 

It is true that from the beginning of the prosecution, 
several had noticed that the prisoner was named Gueux , 
which made a deep impression on them. (The word means 
“ scoundrel.”) 

They read the sentence to Claude, who merely said, — 

“ That is all right. But why did this man steal ? Why 
did this man kill ? These are two questions which they 
leave unanswered.” 

They took him back to the prison, where he supped gayly, 
exclaiming, — 

“ Thirty-six years done with ! ” 

He did not wish to make an application for a reversal of 
judgment. One of the Sisters who had nursed him begged 
him with tears in her eyes to do so; and finally, in order to 
please her, he consented. He resisted up to the last moment, 
for the legal delay of three days had expired three minutes 
before he signed his application on the registry. 

The poor girl gave him five francs, which he took with 
thanks. 

While his application pended, means of escape were sug- 
gested by the prisoners of Troyes, all of whom were devoted 
to him, but he refused them. 


348 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


The prisoners threw into his cell, by means of the vent- 
hole, a nail, a bit of iron wire, and the handle of a pail, any 
one of which would have sufficed in the case of as intelligent 
a man as Claude to file away the bars ; but he returned the 
handle, the wire, and the nail to the jailer. 

The 8th of June, 1832, seven months and four days after 
the deed had been committed, the time came for atonement, 
pede claudo (as may be seen). On that day, at seven o’clock 
in the morning, the clerk of the court entered Claude’s cell, 
and announced that he had only one more hour to live. 

His appeal had been rejected. 

“ Well,” said Claude coldly, “ I slept well last night, never 
doubting but that I should sleep still better to-night.” 

The words of strong men should always receive from ap- 
proaching death a certain dignity. 

The priest arrived, then the hangman. Claude was humble 
with the former, gentle with the latter. He refused them 
neither his soul nor his body. 

He kept up his spirits to the end. While they were cut- 
ting off his hair, some one in the corner of the cell spoke of 
the cholera, which just then threatened Troyes. 

“ Well, for myself,” said Claude, with a smile, “ I do not 
fear the cholera.” 

He listened to the priest with great attention, accusing 
himself greatly, and regretting that he had not been taught 
the Bible. 

At his request they gave him back the scissors with which 
he had hurt himself. One blade was missing, which had 
broken in his breast. He begged the jailer to carry the scis- 
sors to Albin, and say that he sent them. He said also that 
he wanted them to add to this legacy the portion of bread 
which he would have had that day. 

He begged those who tied his hands to put in his right 
hand the five-franc piece which the sister had given him, the 
only thing which was still left him. 

At a quarter before eight he left the prison* &ccompanie.& 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


349 


by the lugubrious procession which always follows a con- 
demned man. Although pale, he walked with a firm step, 
with his eyes fixed on the crucifix which the priest carried. 

They chose that day for the execution because it was mar- 
ket-day, and there would be more eyes than usual to follow 
him. It seemed that there are still in France half-savage 
villages which boast of it when a man is hanged. 

He mounted the scaffold gravely, his eye still on the cross 
of Christ. He embraced the priest, then the hangman, thank- 
ing the one, forgiving the other. The hangman pushed him 
gently away , said a relation. When the assistant was tying 
him to the hideous machine, he signed to the priest to take 
the five-franc piece which he held in his right hand, saying, — 

“ For the poor.” 

Just then the clock in the belfry began to strike eight, and 
the priest could not hear what he said. Claude waited till it 
had struck twice, and said again, very gently, — 

“For the poor.” 

Before the eighth stroke had died away this noble and gen- 
erous head had fallen. 

Admirable result of public executions ! That very day, 
the machine being still there, and not even washed, the people 
fell into a fight over a question of the tariff, and just escaped 
murdering a tax-collector. What gentle people these laws 
make ! 


We thought we ought to give a detailed history of Claude 
Gueux, because we think that every paragraph of the story 
could be used as a heading for each chapter in the book which 
is to solve the great problem of the people of the nineteenth 
century. 

In this important life, there are two principal parts, — before 
the fall, and after the fall ; and under these two phases are 
two questions, the question of education, and the question of 
punishment ; and between these two questions stands society. 


350 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


This man was well bom, well endowed, well gifted. What 
did he lack ? Consider a moment. 

It is the great problem of proportion, the solution of which, 
still to be found, will give the universal equilibrium : “ Let 
society always do as much for the individual as nature has 
done 

Take Claude Gueux, for example. His head was well 
formed, and his heart, without a doubt. But fate put him 
into so poorly organized a society, that he ended by stealing ; 
society put him into so poorly organized a prison, that he 
ended by killing. 

Who is really to blame ? 

Is it he ? 

Is it ourselves ? 

They are hard and pertinent questions, which at present 
demand all consideration, which pull us all, many as we are, 
by the flap of our coats, and which some day will obstruct our 
path so completely, that it will be necessary to look them full 
in the face, and know what they want of us. 

He who writes these lines will shortly try and describe 
how he understands them. 

When one is in the presence of such facts, when one thinks 
of the way in which these questions crowd upon us, we ask 
ourselves what those who govern are thinking about, if it is 
not this. 

The Chamber every year is seriously occupied. No doubt it 
is very important to reduce the sinecures, and open the bud- 
get ; it is very important to make laws in order that I may go, 
disguised as a soldier, and mount guard at the door of the 
Count de Lobau, whom I do not know, and whom I do not 
want to know, or in order to make me parade on the Marigny 
Square, at the good pleasure of my grocer, whom they have 
made my officer. (It goes without saying that we do not in- 
tend to attack here the city patrol, which is a useful thing, 
which guards the street, the threshold, and the home ; but 
merely the parade, the tuft, the vainglorious and military 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


351 


uproar, absurdities which only make the citizen a parody of 
the soldier.) 

It is important, deputies or ministers, to harass and to 
disturb the financial and political ideas of this country by 
discussions full of abortions ; it is essential, for instance, to 
place on the culprit’s bench, and to question in a loud voice, 
and without knowing what one is saying, the art of the nine- 
teenth century, this great and cold convict who disdains to 
answer, and who does right in so doing ; it is expedient to 
pass one’s time, governors and legislators, in classical con- 
ferences which make the suburban schoolmasters shrug their 
shoulders ; it is of use to state that it is the modern drama 
which invented incest, adultery, parricide, infanticide, and 
poisoning, and to prove by that that one knows neither 
Phedre, nor Jocaste, nor QSdipus, nor Medea, nor Rodogune ; 
it is indispensable for the political orators of the country to 
wrangle, for three whole days, regarding the budget, in favor 
of Corneille and Racine, against some one, no one knows 
who, and profit from this literary occasion to plunge all 
together in emulation of one another, into the throat of the 
great faults of French even to the guard. 

All this is important ; but we do think that there may be 
things still more important. What would the Chamber say, 
in the midst of the useless contests in which the ministry 
often seizes the opposition party by the collar, and the opposi- 
tion party, the ministry, if all at once, from the benches of 
the Chamber or from the public gallery, it matters not which, 
some one were to rise and utter these startling words : — 

“Keep still, whoever you are, who are speaking. Keep 
still ! You think you are discussing the question, but you 
are not.” 

This is the question. Scarcely a year ago justice cut up a 
man at Pamiers with a cheap penknife ; at Dijon it beheaded 
a woman ; at Paris, near Saint- Jacques, it carried on secret 
executions. 

This is the question. Consider this. 


352 


CL AUBE GUEUX. 


You may quarrel afterwards as to whether the buttons 
of the National Guard should be white or yellow, and whether 
assurance is a more beautiful thing than certainty. 

Gentlemen from the Centre, gentlemen from the Extremes, 
the mass of people are suffering ! 

Whether you call it a republic or a monarchy, the people 
are suffering. This is a fact. 

The people are hungry, the people are cold. Misery leads 
them to crime or to vice, according to their sex. Have pity 
on the people, whose sons are taken by the galleys, whose 
daughters by the low playhouses. You have too many 
criminals, you have too many prostitutes. 

What do these two evils prove ? 

That the social body has something bad in its blood. 

You are assembled in consultation about a patient’s bed ; 
look after the disease. 

You do not treat the disease correctly. Study it further. 
The laws that you make, when you make any, are only pallia- 
tives and expedients. One-half of them are mere routine; 
the other half, empiricism. 

The evil was a cauterization which mortified the wound ; 
what a senseless punishment is that which seals and rivets 
the crime upon the criminal for life, which makes two friends 
of them, two inseparable companions ! 

The prison is an absurd blister which allows almost all the 
bad blood which it drew out to reabsorb, and not without 
having made it still worse. Capital punishment is a barbar- 
ous amputation. 

But the sore, the prison, and capital punishment are three 
things which are closely united. You have stopped the 
wound ; now, if you are logical, stop the rest. 

The red brand, the ball, and the chopper are the three parts 
of a syllogism. 

You have removed the red brand ; the ball and the chopper 
have no more meaning. Earinace was cruel, but he was not 
absurd. 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


353 


Pull down this old broken ladder of crime and punishment, 
and mend it. Remodel your punishment, your laws; rebuild 
your prisons, your judges. Let the laws follow in the foot- 
steps of the morals. 

Gentlemen, there are too many heads cut off in France every 
year. Since you favor economy, economize here. 

Since you favor suppressions, suppress the hangmen. With 
the salary of your eighty hangmen, you could pay six hun- 
dred school-teachers. 

Think of the mass of the people?, of schools for the chil- 
dren, of workshops for the men. 

Do you know that France is one of the countries of Europe 
where there are very few natives who know how to read ? 
Yes ; Switzerland can read, Belgium can read, Denmark and 
Greece and Ireland can read, — and France cannot ! This is 
disgraceful. 

Go into the prisons. Call out the entire crowd of prisoners. 
Examine each one of those condemned by human law. Study 
the shape of each face, touch each head. Every one of these 
fallen men has his brute type under him ; each one is the point 
of intersection of such and such an animal with humanity. 
There is the lynx, the cat, the ape, the vulture, the hyena. 
And of these poor deformed heads, the first mistake lies in 
nature, no doubt, the second in education. 

Nature made a poor drawing; education has not improved 
it. Turn your attention to this side, to a good education for 
the people. Develop, as well as you can, these poor brains, 
that the intelligence within them may increase. 

Nations have a poorly or a highly developed intellect, ac- 
cording to their institutions. 

Rome and Greece have a high forehead. Broaden as much 
as possible the facial angle of the people. 

When France knows how to read, do not fail to direct the 
intellect which you have developed. This would cause more 
trouble. Ignorance is worth more than poor instruction. 

Do you remember that there is a book which contains 


354 


CLAUDE GUEUX. 


more philosophy than the Compere Mathieu , which is more 
popular than the Constitutionnel, and which will last longer 
than the charter of 1830 ; it is the Bible. And just here, a 
word of explanation. 

Whatever you may accomplish, the lot of the many, of the 
mass, of the majority , will always be relatively poor and sad 
and wretched. Theirs is the hard work, theirs are the bur- 
dens to push and drag and bear. 

Examine the scales : every joy is on the side of the rich, 
every misery on that of the poor. Are not the scales uneven ? 
Does not one side necessarily dip down, and the condition 
of the people with it ? 

And now into the scales of the poor, into the side of misery, 
throw the certainty of a happy future, the hope of eternal 
happiness, paradise. Oh magnificent counterbalance ! The 
equilibrium is established again. The side of the poor is as 
rich as the side of the rich. 

Jesus knew this, long before Voltaire discovered it. 

G-ive to the people who work and suffer, give to these peo- 
ple to whom the world is so harsh, the belief in a better world 
made for them. 

Then they will be calm and patient, for patience is born of 
hope. 

Sow the villages with evangelists. Put Bibles into the 
cottages. And each book and every field between them will 
produce a moral worker. 

The head of the man of the people. That is the question. 
This head is full of useful germs. Use it to ripen and make 
good all that is brightest and best in virtue. 

Such an one has committed murder on the highways, but 
had he been better directed he would have been the best 
worker in the city. 

This head of the man of the people — cultivate it, pull out 
the weeds, water it, enrich it, give it light and moral teach- 
ing, make it of use, and you will have no need to cut it off. 
























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